OK. My alcohol tolerance is stupid. Truly stupid. Thus, I can achieve some distance on what I wrote here, and keep my spelling up to my normal standards.
But I share this as something spontaneous, likely useless, utterly illogical, and most likely more than a little self indulgent.
Are you really so different? If so, I want to know you. I have questions.
For better or worse, this “literary output” made me laugh. Laughing is a concrete and positive outcome most of the time, isn’t it?
I’M NOT LOVEABLE.
Of course you are. Adolph Hitler is loveable.
Wolf spiders are loveable, and so are tarantulas.
Paper cuts are loveable and so is the dark of December.
I’M NOT LOVEABLE.
Of course you are. Broken promises are loveable, and betrayed dreams. Squirrels without tails are loveable, and so are small dogs that bark much too much.
Diarrhea is loveable, particularly when it was hot peppers that did it, and so too are sequels that are terrible.
I’m not loveable.
Love? Do you think I felt love? No, I like to wear a fancy fur coat that says I AM LOVEABLE, and I would like you to try it on. No really. It fits us both, doesn’t it?
Hangovers are not really loveable, are they? Puking, wheezing, dizzying, getting to the thing, not feeling good.
But hangovers are loveable. That is my position.
People who lie are lovable, and people who ask too much, and people who ask too little.
Yes, if the world is not quite loveable, I still have a choice, don’t I?
And if I am not quite loveable–mutatis mutandi and all that–then my doppelganger is. Le Moi est mort. Vive le MOI!!!
Oh, if my drunken laughter is not loveable, then my drunken typing must be.
QED. I rest.