My Brother Has a Problem
My brother has a problem…But, due to all the lack of popularity with friends as to how it came about, and rather than face it head on like the predominant son our father always wanted him to be, he’s living with it. Dealing with something that should be as easily forgotten as it was conceived…
Anyway, this isn’t going anywhere.
A problem is something we all need in our lives. A problem with some tiny detail or great fucking tragedy measured out accordingly to the specific dimensions of what each person will call heaven and hell. In this case the problem, which was so rudely raped by the universal “Human to Humanity” selection committee in terms of its unfortunate paring with my brother, is love. And I know, you’ve heard this before, but let’s face it. The Human Race is cliché and will mostly likely never realize how discover or assimilate any new “material” for exploration, entertainment, and sexual relief.
Love, actually paired with many more monkeys in the zoo than just my brother, seems like something that wouldn’t have time for a meaningless drop of rain like my brother. I mean, shit, love may be eternally damned by circumstances with everyone and anyone at one time in their lives, but despite that. Despite having to actually take the time, put in the effort, and not get any recognition for it; love fucks. Fucks with her, and him, and them, and us, and my brother.
Excuse me, I apologize. Let me start again.
You know, when most people say that their “brother” has a problem, they’re actually referring to themselves. “My brother” or “my friend” takes the place of their actual “self” in order to con advice out of others. Others see through it, they do. And they pity the “brother.” But this is not the case. You see, I am the brother. My name is Dan.
Love fucks. It doesn’t fuck in a nice gentle way, the way stay-at-home moms read about in their Harlequin romance. It isn’t a matter of Hans, with his flaxen hair flowing in the breeze, taking Glinda by the hand and leading her to the forest for hours of “lovemaking.” No,not this love. Not in this world. Love fucks. Love fucks you over like a background player in some bad Ron Jeremy porn. Fucks you, leaves you, and moves along to the next bit player in the orgy of life.
Or maybe Fuck and Love are more like two “fucked up” cousins. Fuck and Love, perhaps distant cousins, one from the wrong side of the tracks, have lived separate lives. One day, they are forced together at the FAMILY REUNION that we more commonly refer to as sex.
Fuck and Love are introduced to one another, but they come from entirely different worlds. They interact, but not well. They cannot communicate. The language is obscene.
Fuck always trying to get the last word in.
Love always trying to be the “best.”
And as a result, a fight breaks out, and the family reunion, as it is every year, is ruined.
One year, the reunion was ruined because the secret envy between the two came to a boiling point.
Fuck came to the reunion, not in his usual duds, but dressed more in the way that Love usually does. Hair slicked back, an adequate amount of cologne sprayed, shoes shined. He looked like the spitting image of Love. As Love, the family would treat him better, talk to him perhaps. As Love, he would be accepted.
Love was not amused.
When really, Love should have been flattered. All these years, Fuck had secretly been envious of Love and all that he possessed. Fuck had always been the outcast of the family, the one only begrudgingly invited to the “snooty” family get-togethers.
So what, he had disguised himself as Love. What’s wrong with that?
But, I digress. I was supposed to be talking about me, wasn’t I?
Anyway, this isn’t going anywhere.
A problem is something we all need in our lives. A problem with some tiny detail or great fucking tragedy measured out accordingly to the specific dimensions of what each person will call heaven and hell. In this case the problem, which was so rudely raped by the universal “Human to Humanity” selection committee in terms of its unfortunate paring with my brother, is love. And I know, you’ve heard this before, but let’s face it. The Human Race is cliché and will mostly likely never realize how discover or assimilate any new “material” for exploration, entertainment, and sexual relief.
Love, actually paired with many more monkeys in the zoo than just my brother, seems like something that wouldn’t have time for a meaningless drop of rain like my brother. I mean, shit, love may be eternally damned by circumstances with everyone and anyone at one time in their lives, but despite that. Despite having to actually take the time, put in the effort, and not get any recognition for it; love fucks. Fucks with her, and him, and them, and us, and my brother.
Excuse me, I apologize. Let me start again.
You know, when most people say that their “brother” has a problem, they’re actually referring to themselves. “My brother” or “my friend” takes the place of their actual “self” in order to con advice out of others. Others see through it, they do. And they pity the “brother.” But this is not the case. You see, I am the brother. My name is Dan.
Love fucks. It doesn’t fuck in a nice gentle way, the way stay-at-home moms read about in their Harlequin romance. It isn’t a matter of Hans, with his flaxen hair flowing in the breeze, taking Glinda by the hand and leading her to the forest for hours of “lovemaking.” No,not this love. Not in this world. Love fucks. Love fucks you over like a background player in some bad Ron Jeremy porn. Fucks you, leaves you, and moves along to the next bit player in the orgy of life.
Or maybe Fuck and Love are more like two “fucked up” cousins. Fuck and Love, perhaps distant cousins, one from the wrong side of the tracks, have lived separate lives. One day, they are forced together at the FAMILY REUNION that we more commonly refer to as sex.
Fuck and Love are introduced to one another, but they come from entirely different worlds. They interact, but not well. They cannot communicate. The language is obscene.
Fuck always trying to get the last word in.
Love always trying to be the “best.”
And as a result, a fight breaks out, and the family reunion, as it is every year, is ruined.
One year, the reunion was ruined because the secret envy between the two came to a boiling point.
Fuck came to the reunion, not in his usual duds, but dressed more in the way that Love usually does. Hair slicked back, an adequate amount of cologne sprayed, shoes shined. He looked like the spitting image of Love. As Love, the family would treat him better, talk to him perhaps. As Love, he would be accepted.
Love was not amused.
When really, Love should have been flattered. All these years, Fuck had secretly been envious of Love and all that he possessed. Fuck had always been the outcast of the family, the one only begrudgingly invited to the “snooty” family get-togethers.
So what, he had disguised himself as Love. What’s wrong with that?
But, I digress. I was supposed to be talking about me, wasn’t I?