Did you hear the one about the woman who fell in love with a rollercoaster?
It wasn’t a joke.
Maybe there is some security in knowing that a rollercoaster will never look at other rollercoasters or try to rub rails with them.
Maybe there’s some comfort in knowing that a rollercoaster will always be there; colourful, well-oiled, steadfast, and reliable.
Maybe it’s the taboo thrill of the safety bar closing around your chest, locking you in a PVC-scented embrace.
Maybe it’s the tickle of the cold steel brushing against the hairs on your arms. Or the loss of orientation, and the screaming as things go rapidly downhill.
I’m not sure what has to happen to a person to make them fall in love with a rollercoaster, but let’s assume it isn’t great.
It is pretty cool that despite that hurt, the human heart will always find something to love, even if the brain is too scared to let it be another human.
Excuse me while I hug my guitar.
Do you know those people that you see pretty frequently but always seem to avoid actually making contact with you?
It’s never someone we really know, but maybe we see them at the store or in the street or the park pretty often.
They have a sneaky look, never meet your eye when you turn to look, and always seem to be doing something else.
It’s because they fancy the pants off you.
They can’t even look at you without getting a tingly crotch.
Every time they see you coming, their stomach leaps into their throat and starts making weird noises, and they have to look away because they can’t breathe
I thought you should know, in case you worried it was something else.
Poetry makes it seem like love is something you can lose.
It’s not. But it is fairly easy to misplace.
Cupid swerves his truck through a gutter puddle, soaking a few months or years of our lives in love. But it never seems to last.
And that’s where most people misplace their love.
It’s hard to see it at first, through all the shouting and screaming and tears. But as time unwinds from love’s silky thighs, a little something gets left behind.
There’s a part of me that remembers being in love with everyone in my past; that remembers a time and place when we were together and we were happy.
We can never go back there but it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist, locked deep in the past where it can’t be changed.
A memory of time well spent, with someone we cared about.
Always and forever, and never again, all at the same time.
Wherever you are.
Whatever you want to call it.
There’s something within you that can light up the darkest place.
Even when no one can see it — and even when you forget it’s there — you carry that warm glow of love and kindness everywhere.
Don’t forget to share.
I don’t want anchovies on my pizza, but I don’t hate them. I don’t care enough about anchovies to hate them.
We have to love something or be scared of losing something we love to hate anything.
I often hate writing.
I hate the thought that I’m going to dedicate my life to doing it, and it doesn’t care about me. I hate it when the words don’t come. I hate that for them to be any good, I have to put myself in them. And I hate that no matter what I do, some people won’t like what they see in them — and they might hate me too.
But I love to hate it.
Just like a sports fan loves to hate their biggest rivals. It’s all part of the game.
It’s no fun hating a rival team that you never get to play, that you never get to score against, that you never get to holler and swear and shout at. It’s no fun when there’s nothing to challenge you.
Some days, we lose, and there are tears. But that just means there’s more war to wage tomorrow.
Find something that you love to hate, and you’ll battle with it forever.