Love’s Hangover
Love Is Officially Sick Of Your Shit
The Goddess of Love awoke clutching a half-empty bottle of champagne, groggy and confused. Still (mostly) wearing a satin gown from the night before and sprawled across her enormous red velvet tufted divan, she swore she could hear the thunder of elephants stampeding through her boudoir.
The gentle pitter-patter of bare feet, barely audible over the throbbing pulse of Love’s hangover, was in fact, the tip-toeing of her servants across her sticky carpet. Desperately, they were attempting (and failing) to remove all evidence of lascivious behavior from the previous night from the hazmat zone which was her bedroom, without disturbing her coma-like slumber.
“What time is it” Love mumbled.
“It is four o’clock” her servants replied meekly.
“It’s goddamn four o’clock in the morning and you’re in here cleaning?!” the irate goddess bellowed.
“Mistress, it’s four o’clock in the afternoon.”
“And you let me sleep? Where the hell is my phone?”
Knowing their words would only be met with further scorn, her servants meekly pointed across the room. There, in the corner, atop a pile of crumpled foil chocolate wrappers, used magnums, and wilted roses, sat her broken smart-phone: smashed into a million pieces, as if someone had hurled it across the room in a fit of anger in the middle of the night.
“Goddamnit” Love grumbled. “That’s the third one this week.”
“Fourth” her servants corrected, careful not to provoke her ire further. You have…unread messages” they said, handing her a fresh replacement.
Love looked at her notifications. “You have 42 billion unread messages” said the servants of Love.”
“Half of them are probably from Nick Cannon” Love scoffed. She sat up in her bed, her silk pillows smeared with last night’s makeup. “I freaking hate Valentine’s Day” she confessed.
“How” Love asked rhetorically “did it come to this?”
Having experienced this particular tirade before, her servants offered the expected response. In unison and harmony, they responded “Hallmark.”
“Fuck Hallmark” Love spat gruffly. “And Tindr. Why the hell did I ever sanction dating apps?”
“Times change” replied the newest of Love’s servants. “We change with them, if we want to stay relevant.”
The other servants fell silent, knowing full well what was about to happen.
“Relevant?!” Love roared, now fully awake. “I am the goddess of mother-effing LOVE. I am a fundamental principle of the Universe. Wars have been fought over me. I've humbled kings and paupers, inspired poets and warriors. I make the goddamned world go ‘round, and this?” Love said, pointing at the detritus surrounding her. “This one day a year?
“This is the thanks I get?”
Love arose from her divan, glorious in the splendor of her righteous indignation. "The humans beseech me night and day” Love raged. “Looking for me outside of themselves, seeking partnership, searching to add meaning to their finite, painful lives. I am the ultimate power in existence, yet the mortals beg and whimper for my attention as if they deserve me?”
“I am Love, I owe no one favors.”
"I am not the God of Compromise" Love proclaimed. "Nor am I the God of Settling, Lust, of Infatuation, of Coercion, of Desperation, or the god of Options. And I certainly am not the goddess of Commercialism, parading about as manufactured affectations. I am NOT convenient, nor am I for the faint of heart.
"I AM LOVE" she roared, "and I demand SACRIFICE.”
“Is there anything we can do” the servants of Love asked cautiously “to ease our mistress’ distress?”
“Resurrect the Sufi poets” Love sighed. “Hafiz understood. Gibran understood. Rumi…” Love said, her voice trailing off. “I sent them prophets” Love lamented. “I told them millennia ago:
“I am everywhere.
“I am the smell of puppy breath, the gurgle of babies laughing, the scent of fresh cut grass in the summertime. I am the songs that color the chapters of your life, the sensation of sun on your face and sand between your toes. I am well-seasoned foods and the comfort of trusted confidants.
“I am the gentle grip of your grandfather’s hands, the safety of a mother’s protection.
“I am the manifestation of joy found in-betwixt the tragedy of impermanence” said Love, bathed in the light of her fury. “I am the doorway to all the secrets of the Universe, the key to all mysteries, a gift freely given to those in search of the Divine.”
“The world has never been more desperately in need of you” the servants of Love replied. “Maybe now more than ever. Sadly, resurrection is beyond our abilities. Is there anything else we can bring our mistress to ease her suffering?”
“Ibuprofen” Love sighed. “And Plan B. And my copy of The Prophet.”
