Lunatic Fringe

It's something singular really, when love goes down. Maybe in a day, or in a night, or in the succession of those times both, as they encompass a life. All love is selfish, but I guess it's supposed to be that way. Or how it should start, at least. From the moment of inception we learn to love the things we do out of a familiar feeling of well-being, a sort of inherent, happiness-survival instinct. And I say that because it is how I remember my life - my own memory being of course the ultimate subjective entity I could ever think to convey. Selfish love is that flame which burns brightest. It is the mystery by which all other high emotions in our later lives are judged, and in turn they somehow pale in comparison; first love is a fatal affliction, one which we first encounter when all is innocence, we struggle to remake the hour, the inception, and the sheer profundity of the moment, even at times to the detriment of all other happiness we may have perhaps experienced. Selfish

Loverboy has said as much, and it shall be so. This weekend by the numbers: Money spent= way too much (we're going to get a personal advisor to handle that from now on). Hours of sleep= 2 (as in far too little, having been woken up to find missing keys). Number of chicks passed out on the couch with me Friday night= 2 Number of chicks I got action from Friday night= 0 - 2 (they're sleepers, these ones). Ounces of malt liquor consumed outside for the parade Saturday morning, 40, of course (St. Ides, I love you). Age of hot girl downstairs at Jillians= "24, but I'm engaged." Number of seconds it took me to eat the most breathtaking chicken sandwich ever, probably 24, and it was single (unless you count the fries it came with, in that case it was married, with fries). Number of doors broken by me= 1, but it was encouraged and a nice thing to do, in order to gain entrance. Friday, Evening: But let's get back to the matter at hand; Friday night was a card playing,