My head feels like its been dressed in tight latex and left
at a corner street next to an all-boys boarding school with
a big sign saying "Public domain". Not that I blame him or
anything. The mere shock of such a question after years of
emotional and physical abuse by his owner and his happy
bunch of mind-pillaging substances would have rendered him
not suitable for a leech or even an aspiring politician.

We were sitting under her house sipping tomato juice and
vodka(I called it Bloody Marry, she called it stupid) and
out of nowhere, like it was a some maliciously planned
ambush, she asked me what generations of american sitcoms
and soap operas (not that I watch those, being manly and
all) should have prepared me for "Do you love me". Before I
had the time to wrap a quick bullshit session she added
"just say yes or no", tricky bugger she was.

Now, before I continue, let me just say I have no objection
to love whatsoever, personally I find it to be a very
appealing nice sidekick emotion you can cuddle around with
at lonely nights when all other emotions fail to deliver and
beer has made it viable enough to admit without having
horrid spasmsall across your home-brewed manhood.

But right there? in complete daylight partial-soberness? was
she mad? joking? or worse, was she none of the above and all
girls are actually like that. What if I was not lied to by
mass-media and aunts. What if girls really are different?

That thought alone was enough to send an alarm signal
emitting from the deepest most ancient part of my brain,
kept warm by ages of hairy cavemen screaming "HIT HER ON THE
HEAD, SHE IS MAD, MAD I SAY" to be sent directly to my groin
telling it to shut down all operations and preper for
withdraw, we are not going to see action today.

In a most subtle inept way I grunted a quick "uhhhhhhh" and
tried to make my eyes uncross hers in a way which would not
make visible the coward just waiting to takeover me within
at that moment. If any dramatic pause was ever overused in
the history of awkward moments, that one was it. It looked
like time tucked known history into bed, kissed it goodnight
and went upstairs to write the annuals of the universe on
the tip of a nail untill my lazy mind comes up with a
solution.

Let me please note, at this point my outmost appreciation to
the patient reader, I am writing this at 40wpm or so and in
true need for a smoke, one I can not delay anymore. Upon my
return I can not assure my current state of mind would
remain at its current position and might be replaced with
something much weirder and less stracture-friendly.

Hello there, I'm back. How are you? all well I hope. No
unexpected deaths or fortunes? good. Let me note my
appreciation for the super-dopah reader again. And mind not
my ass-kissing, for ass-kissing I have.

After a prolonged and much to the upbrinding of my answer.
Which has grown old and tired by the time it took to cross
the hardships and dangers of the journy from my primate male
brain to the tip of my now dried tongue. It finally came
out, and it sounded something like this:

"Hmmmmm, so... when you say love, you mean... what exactly?"


Not foreign herself to the same TV-deduced upbringing of my
childhoodby I was awarded with the obligatory slap in the
face and skip-skip-and-jump run away scene.

Sitting there outside, my right cheek feeling like invisible
ants chewing their way to the surface of the skin the only
thing that sprung to my ragged mind was "damn, I wonder if
she's into BDSM".

Whats the moral point to this story? bottom line is, this
story has no morals and nor do I, Love is a noun and I thank
God every day for being too stupid to understand it.