Just the once.

You know something? If you took a cute baby seal and only half hammered its little face in, that baby seal might well survive – just not so cutely and possibly a bit knackered and sociopathically jaded. This is analogous to your heart. When I say heart of course, I don’t mean your fucking ventricles - I mean that random bit of your brain that releases the chemical “you’refuckednowxytonin” into your blood supply when you fall in love. The important thing to note here is that the baby seal cannot get its cuteness back unless there exists some sort of baby seal doctor that wouldn’t rather sell its skin. And though you might think the world is a happy place with baby seal doctors restoring the half-broken faces of little seals, the fact is these people do not exist because baby seal corpse is worth a lot of fucking money and that’s tangible while cutesy bollocks is not.

So fuck the seals. And fuck your heart, to be honest. If it got broken once, hard enough, it’s never going to be restored. Don’t cry. It was just a form of innocence lost and thus not a bad thing; esp. in a world full of cunts that will play you like a cacophonically broken violin if you weren’t walled in a fortress that only gives way when they say the passwords to your soul. You don’t know what those are, of course. That’s the point.

Now it might look like I’m rambling or losing my train of thought, but I’m not because I’m clever. This post will close on the idea that your number of soul-passwords undergoes a huge reduction only once, ever. You only get heartbroken once. It won’t happen again. I know – you think you’ve been heartbroken a few times or whatever. I don’t buy it. I’ve been fucked with by every permutation of demonic neuroses that’s ever been implanted into female format and unleashed on earth. Don’t ask me how it happens, it just fucking does. The one thing I’ve learned is that it’s hard to tell when you’ve been really heartbroken.

Telling when you’re in love is easy. It’s that clichéd “you just know” feeling. It exists. Not had it yet? Boo the fuck hoo, but it’s out there. Telling when you’re heartbroken can seem like a “you just know” feeling, on account of the fact you’re sitting in a dark room in a pile of broken vodka bottles and you don’t want to turn on the light in case you really did carve her name thirty-six times into your forearms. But that’s just pain, loneliness, anger, being messed with, blah – any number of negative emotions all rolled into one and making you experience them at the same time. It does pass. Real heartbreak doesn’t pass.

Oh, you’ll always get over them. Reiterated: If you’re not a dependent, desperate fucknut you’re going to get over the person that really broke your heart. But you won’t be able to tell it broke until years later. Not because you still pine for them, but because your heart is actually fucking broken. You suddenly realise you’re a bit fucked and it’s not going away even though you’ve received enough blow jobs in the meantime to presumably cure any ailment the world could inflict. It will have caned you just like the baby seal’s face. It’s an actual breakage, no shit.

And once something is broken you can’t break it again. Not really. Not to the point where it makes much difference.

The good news is that it can only happen the once and it’s a good thing to have happened before you venture into the big badass world where people will call you a cunt, y'cunt. You can be more straight with people, take damage on the nose, be more confident, whatever. You’re safe: Play with fire. You won’t get truly hurt even if you try.

The bad news is that you’re broken and nobody will ever be able to get close to you again.

And when I say “nobody will ever”, I mean that. Nobody, no matter how brilliant or different or “soul mate” they are, will get the to the same places the first person did. You are built against that now and there’s no treatment to reverse it.

Man, and it’s raining.