This is a five minute procrastinate from finishing my essay (due tomorrow, worth a lot, word length: 3000) but I'm not as stressed as I'm gonna be.

I've done a tad of self-analysis, which is usually quite fun (thinking about yourself generally is) but this one came up with something surprising. I've been researching an article on online infidelity, and whether the internet has boosted the incidence of affairs (short answer: yes. a lot) Anyhow, I came across an interesting article by Angela Lewis, a Melbourne researcher, on the concept of limerence. Basically, limerence is the phenomenon of falling in love just to be in love. It's kind of an addictive thing to these people, whose community, upon reflection, I have found myself part of. Yup, one of those simple-yet-accurate discoveries that took too long to find out. If I'm not in love, I'm miserable in my daily happiness, and when I am in love, I'm miserable and joyous, depending on the time of day, current lover, and depth of overwrought analysis. I'm trying to figure out if I want to break this link or if it's so fundamental I wouldn't be me anymore. I think it's prolly the latter. I mean, it's not such a bad vice to have, is it? I'm not into money or physical things, only really into sex because it means I get to lie next to someone, drugs are boring and self-indulgent, and in terms of career, it's not something I get excited about often, and when I do, it wears off pretty quick. I mean, sure, I want to be a kick-ass, high-paid writer, but fuck, I know if I ever get there I'll look around and think is this it? No, give me love, please. The highs, the lows, the licence to treat life like a lark and time as a servant, new places, old comfortable places, outside inside upside down. Sure, I make a fool out of myself, but watch some office politics and see who's the bigger idiot. The only problem is at the moment I've got a temporary respite, and the numbing hole, the lack of narrative in my life is killing me. A old friend of mine (on the border of becoming an Acquaintance) shits me because he isn't happy unless he's unhappy, unless something's going wrong, unless he's tired, or broke, or sick, or depressed, or full of loathing for the world, or all of the above. But I'm not really that far away. A second cousin, perhaps.

I realise, of course, that this has been a Privileged Whinge, brought about because I'm not suffering sufficiently in a material or spiritual sense. Give me ten years and a mortgage and I'll be over love. But for now...