For the Crazy Ones
Why do I even let myself care? Because...and I'll tell you why...I truly, truly want to believe!
It's true. I do. I want the love story. The pathetic hearts and flowers together forever and we build a life together amazingness that has seemed to elude me. I want to believe that there is a man out there that I am attracted to that is fun and awesome and loves me back in a way that actually is love. Love. Like he doesn't lie to me or is not one way in front of some people and another way in front of other people. Love. Like he treats me the way every single nice girl on the planet deserves to be treated and he doesn't have some weird, sick, secret perversion. Love. Real love. Not where he thinks he owns me or tries to control me or tell me what to do all the time. Love, actual love. Love like best friends with life-long benefits kind of love and we are equal and we give to each other simply because we love each other kind of love. Love that means something and makes me want to be better because of how I feel when I'm with him...and he wants to be with me just as much kind of love. It exists, I know it! It has to. All this other crap, it's not worth it. It's stupid and it hurts too much and it sucks. I've been in too many crappy relationships and it's way too damn hard to go through one more. Not one more. I'm not doing it. I'm just not. Really. It's enough to make me want to just give up and just not think about love at all. Yet, I still also want to believe. Crazy. Crazy love. I believe in it. I believe I deserve it. To be loved like that and give love like that. And that exists. It has to. It has to for me, for everyone who believes in it.
So here's to those who think like me. Who believe real love exists, that they deserve it and don't want any substitutes for it. You crazy ones, enough to believe we don't have to be stuck with anything less. It hurts to walk away from the less. Every damn time it really does. But it's less than love and that is not enough. And it makes it okay for me to sit here in sweats on a Saturday night, alone.