Love Love Love...yada yada yada

Love has rotten timing.
It comes when it comes, with a life force and a momentum of its own. Usually it steam rollers and we are flattened by it when it knocks the wind out of us. It chooses us, we cannot choose Love. It has a season when it sows seeds, and then it could take forever, or no time at all, to ripen. It usually happens out of the blue. That's why its other name is 'a bolt of lightning'. It never appears when you expect it to, so much so that when it finally does, you're annoyed, or perturbed, or incredulous, or sometimes furious. You cry, then laugh, then cry some more. Before you either reject, or accept it.

Love makes me sick.
Love visits us and it's a disease. I cannot function when I'm in love. I cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot speak, or I speak too much. Mainly gibberish. I cannot focus my eyes, I cannot eat, cannot sleep. There is this constant gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. When it goes a bit wrong, I want to throw up. When it has gone really wrong I want to curl up into a foetal ball, and simply die. Not exist. For the ground to open up under my feet and just swallow me whole, so I won't know the torment any more. I seek oblivion when love turns sour. And once Love turns, there is absolutely NOTHING you can do to change its course. It selfishly and single-mindedly marches out of the room. Finito. Period. Nada mas. How about that: an uninvited guest, who comes and messes you around for a bit, then leaves just when you got used to it.

Love blinds us.
Everything then becomes delusional, illusional, single dimensional or multifocal. You don't know what you're looking at most of the time - you examine it from every angle if you're girl and angst about every feature: anything missing, everything unusual or too ordinary. Or if you're a guy you just look at it full frontal once, say "humphh" and then kick it into a corner like a football and forget about it. None of your guy friends will tell you to go pick it up and give it a bit of a dribble. Wild horses wouldn't drag you to couples' therapy to look at the thingy face to face; you've seen it once, and that is that. You don't want to connect with the feminine side of yourself. Either way, neither of you see it really for what it might be.
Or you could see the whole world through that Love, and it absolutely taints everything. Love, the whole love and nothing but the love, so help you God. If all is well you get schmaltzy and gooey eyed, ab-fably disgusting with every aspect of your life. You only have eyes for each other. So you walk into walls, furniture, heavy, high speed traffic and little old ladies who will beat you with their sticks. If things are tough then you do the same: walk into walls and furniture and bruise yourself, and high speed traffic grind to a screeching halt and shout expletives at you. Little old ladies raise their handbags to strike you, then halt, shake their heads at your obvious pallor and misery, then just cuss at you and hobble off.

Love makes life hell for everyone else.
It doesn't just affect you if you're in Love. Your pets hate you, because you forget to feed them, or drag them through their statutory walks in five minutes flat so they can't pee or poo or sniff. You ruffle your cat like it's a dog, and you stroke your goldfish like it was your cat. You talk, or worse, sing at the tortoise. Your plants die. You over water the cactus till all the needles fall off. And nothing else flowers because they get no water at all, plus you've sprayed furniture polish on them instead of leafshine. Your family can't stand you. You are glued to the mobile phone, so no one can get a word in edgeways. Or you lock yourself in the only family bathroom for hours. You disappear right before and just after meals, where you only make mucky-moo out of your dinner and not touch a single mouthful. At work you get summoned before your line manager twice in a day sometimes, for absentminded mistakes. As for your friends, what friends? You have none left because you've either neglected them for weeks, or they need to cross the road when they see you coming, knowing you have only one topic of conversation.

Love. It is the loneliest thing. It is the most glorious estate. Heaven help you, poor fool, if you are in love.