Love is not a bouquet of roses. It doesn’t ride up to you on steed and sweep you off your feet and carry you away to eternal happiness. Your beloved will not shoot rainbows out of his or her ass. No, it’s better than that, because all of those things are bullshit, and love isn’t.
Love is someone choosing to be with you even though you’re an asshat.
It’s a person who helps you when they don’t want to, because you need that help and bad stuff is going to happen if you don’t get it.
Love goes out to the Walgreen’s at 9:30 PM because you’ve got a bad headache and the last Advil is long-fucking-gone and you won’t sleep if you can’t get some medicine.
You know you’re truly loved if your partner thinks you’re sexy even when you’re going to bed in an old, stretched-out tank top and shorts where the fly won’t button.
If your partner will let you sit in the car with the heater on while they go outside in the freezing rain to scrape ice off of the windshield, you are loved.
When you’re really loved, it doesn’t matter how much you burned the grilled cheese, because the other person will still eat it (and tell the kids to thank you for the yummy dinner).
Love doesn’t mind being the Designated Driver so you can have that fourth vodka/cranberry.
If you’ve ever gotten a text message saying, Come upstairs. I miss you! you are loved.
That look of disappointment on Valentine’s Day when all you did was post a blog? That’s love, too, and it expected more from you, you selfish prick. Try not to let it down this way again next year.