Tao of Gabe: On the Grammatics of Love Addiction

Tao of Gabe

Gabe the Emancipated Beaver here with a recently expired poetic license. So any metaphor I use will be as illegal as your hairstyle should be.

That was a simile. Don’t worry, I’m okay.

Hopefully I’ll manage to renew my license before somebody turns me in to the Grammar Police. There’s nothing more embarrassing than Grammar Police brutality. At least the Fashion Police have the decency to beat you in stylized, matching uniforms.

As long as I stay away from poetic subjects like love, death, unrequited love, and barely requited death, I’m okay.

Speaking of love, remember back in grade school when a single look from the girl/boy/goldfish you liked made your heart melt?

Whatever happened to those days? Where does the time go?

“To the past, usually.”

The problem with love is that it is such an addictive thing that we develop a tolerance (ref. “Addicted to Love” by Robert Palmer). At age 20, if a girl only kisses you on the cheek on the third date, then you’ve likely entered the realm of “friend” who pays for food. (That’s complete with quotation marks around the word friend.)

If, on the other hand, a girl kissed you on the cheek in second grade, your friends might search your backpack for your love potion or Funky Cold Medina.

As years and experience goes up, we get better at knowing who, when, how, and in some cases what to love. This is much in the same way that a cocaine or accent-addict might know his craft better than the casual beaver.

And like black-tar heroine, Mountain Dew: Code Red, and the finest Cuban accent, love increases in cost with each increase in quantity. The only problem is that with love, the increase isn’t in money: it’s in emotional energy and time spent.

Also money.

There doesn’t seem to be a way out of the cycle other than brain damage or changing sexual orientation every year, but I wouldn’t recommend that. After girls and boys, goldfish just don’t cut it.

By the way, sorry I went off on a tangent: today is the third and a half anniversary of the first time my second wife twice removed’s favorite cat Mittens died. If you’ve ever gone through that ordeal, you know what I’m talking about and where I’m coming from.

If you’ve never gone through that ordeal, you’re probably laughing and saying “Gabie, you’re coming from the page, silly.”

However, I stress that while the random drug reference might be funny to most people as a comparison, there is nothing remotely funny about accents. This is especially true of bad accents. For more information, visit your public library and use their high-speed internet to look it up on Wikipedia.

Uh, oh, I’m in trouble. Extended metaphors carry 25 to life.

Love, but it’ll cost you,
Gabe D. Beaver

“Remember Kids: Christian is a weird name. You never hear of anybody called ‘Jew’ or ‘Pagan.'”

Tao of Gabe Gabe the Emancipated Beaver here with a recently expired poetic license. So any metaphor I use will be as illegal as your hairstyle should be. That was a simile. Don’t worry, I’m okay. Hopefully I’ll manage to renew my license before somebody turns me in to the Grammar Police. There’s nothing more…