Love is fifteen minutes of fun in a bathroom with a married man. Love is getting married on a camera and sleeping in different rooms when the lights go off. Love is pornography with your best friend on the weekends and acting like nothing happened come Monday. The hieroglyphics once told a different story. A caveman clubs things to bring home to his wife who is making clothes and taking care of a baby cavechild. Then came civilization, making love more like a parasitic relationship. One leeches from the other, then moves on when they have had their fill. Now we are here, when love is just a cheap trinket like a nice car or a large television.

But no one cares anymore. I try to open as many eyes as I can, but the eyes rarely want to see. How could they see what is in front of them when Prince Lucas of The Netherlands is marrying some lowly Austrian Subway cashier. That is romance now. No one wants the old lovers that fight over juice and fart to communicate. They want young. They want Tindr and Grindr and Humpr. They want public and raunchy and impure. And I'm done trying. So, I turn off my television, log off of social media, and realize that no one will ever understand anymore, and no one will ever want to again.