This must be love: a rant

Tired of this pressured, packaged, pleasure with the paint and plastic label, “Love.” Get the hell away from me. Keep your flimsy velcro “Matching” stuck to something that cares. Maybe the a*s of some ape still impressed with mere pretty colors and shiny faces. The only match I want is one I can strike and set fire to your glittery, prostituted images of fantasy ideals.

 

Before you point a manicured finger at me for this “overreaction,” consider how you make a mockery of me and any public with half a brain, if you expect your stamp to leave it’s mark here. Disgusting and sad, yet, I see this imprint, like the mark of the Justin Timberlake beast, across the television, video-game glazed eyes of a malleable youth. An army of impressioned zombies, who wouldn’t even guess that “impressioned” isn’t a word, giving themselves away to a one-dimensional cardboard cut-out of trended, stylized, processed, chewed, swallowed, vomited “Love.” Barbie has come home to roost in the minds of these illusioned masses.

 

I intend to burn the plastic; flush out the flocks of fake flyers, posters, pop stars, liars. You work well; teaching a generation through what you can sell. Take your “matches” and burn in Hello Kitty pink graves with all romantic comedies playing on loop in choreographed unison with every artistically drained, dripping love song pop, pop, popping bubble gum through radio waves into the heart of this controversially connotated (also not a word) “culture.”

 

God, just kill me. The melodrama seeps in for designed dramatic effect, and we wonder what goes wrong with the youth of today. But I broaden too widely in my rant. The girth of this issue is at fast-food obesity proportions. This must be love. Or indigestion.