3.24a

I keep marking these "a" and then never doing any "b"s. So here's an idea for a story I had.

People don't fall in love. Teenagers fall in love. Thus my statement: teenagers aren't people. You may disagree if you wish, but watch any seventy year-old man wooing his sixty seven year-old mistress and you'll see. What they call love is more like a campfire, slowly burning in the obscurity of the blackness around it, fueled by a single cowboy in worn leather and flannel, trying to ward off the coyotes. People don't fall in love. That's a dabbling, a mere pittance of the fire and the passion and wild abandon that a human can muster. That's not falling.

Falling in love is more like the fire that lightning started in the forest which now threatens to consume the village where a teenager sits, reveling in the heat, glad that the winter is gone and completely vacant to the idea that his home is burning to the ground. It's like jumping off of something high up, into water, and realizing that the fall is longer than expected and having a moment of panic as the water never seems to arrive. Falling is not knowing what the heck you're doing but doing it anyway.

And to God I wish I weren't a teenager, but I am. So here goes nothing.

My name is Percy, and I'm a loveaholic.