...and it loves like a good hard drunk night, and then it aches like a massive hangover that makes me wish I was dead.
I love really hard.
Is that something that needs to be medicated? I don't know anymore. I was taking some Wellbutrin for a while, good for revving up my already high-level sex drive and making me feel speedy when my body felt like a ton of bricks, but it doesn't directly address the real thing. Whatever that is.
I don't know what I can really do to change the way my heart works. It seems to rule everything I do, and this is problematic in many ways. Finances, for instance, are not ruled by the heart. Hearts and cash don't really know each other. The bank doesn't care about my heart, and my heart doesn't really give a shit about the bank. If hearts and money could communicate, advertising would be useless and businesses wouldn't have to appeal to our pocketbooks through our desire for warm body love and affection.
Beer can often be good medicine for this stuff as a temporary antidote. Temporary, and in small quantities.

Fuck it. Fuck all of these attempts to change. It's just another industry, no matter how smiling and shiney happy the supposedly caring peddlers seem to be. I found myself inside a small shop here in a post-hippie haven of Marin County the other day, holding a bottle of flower essences purported to lighten my heart and ease my pains, the water said to be blessed by Amma (the hugging lady who awakens the cult-follower in many) and flowers said to be wildcrafted from the exotic lands of the Amazon and Hawwaii by some well-meaning New Age prostitute (er, "healer") who had visited one of those foreign lands like many other privileged fauxhemian children of the Reagan era who took acid at a full moon party and decided to use their trust fund to make Burning Man happen neo-colonial style down in South America. That story of reality passed through my mind as I held this bottle, and I quickly recovered from my temporary lapse in judgement in time to put down this bottle. It helps to be poor, too.
Happiness peddlers can't really do anything for me with their silly potions that a good ale and a night bike ride can easily beat.
Want to buy me a new bike? Something's gotta give - this heart isn't going anywhere.