Posts Tagged ‘when love happen’
Love happens when two people shoot each other with magic poison or one person shoots the other.
Why does it have to be him . . . that one? Because those thousands of other men just as good, possibly better than he, haven’t been injected with your poison. Everybody has a supply and we inject each other. A man who is gaga about a woman has given her a big injection.
When a man looks like Pinocchio but to you he’s Placido Domingo, he’s had an injection.
What I’m saying is that Cupid doesn’t do it with bows and arrows, you do it with this sweet, efficient “poison.” In the best of worlds, we’re mutually poisoned, but we can’t shoot ourselves . . . your supply of magic-poison is only to shoot other people.
Some shoot many times (you can get refills). Others use up only their original supply, if that, and die with most of their magic-poison still in its little vial. The cost for refills gets a bit high, especially for men who marry each poisoned lady and have to pay off the old one in cash or other hard goods, but for women, too, shooting frequently is costly because falling in and subsequently out of love is quite an emotional drain. Most of us, especially when young, get shot once or twice by somebody.
Rich, famous, powerful men get shot continuously until they die, and some (Mickey Rooney, Rex Harrison, Richard Burton, Alan Jay Lerner) do continuous shooting of their own all their lives. Some women only shoot men “over their head”—a movie star, a rock musician or a man (possibly homosexual) who never shoots back. It’s called “hiding out” . . . picking a totally ungettable type so you can’t actually become involved, but the shooting is all involuntary, can’t be consciously planned.
If you pick a victim because you think he might be good for you (suitable) but for whom you feel no attraction, the magic won’t “take.” Many of us keep shooting the same “type” of man over and over, however. My friend Diane shoots only “baby boys.” . . . “They are so cute,” she said in Interview magazine. My southern-belle friend Linda Rae likes only Oriental men, etc., etc., etc.—falconer’s choice. God knows you don’t always shoot the most suitable victim . . . later you find he has a soft white cruddy underbelly but, while full of your poison, he is Superman.
We can’t see what other people see in their victims, of course, because we haven’t shot them with anything and friends haven’t used any of their magic on our beloved, so they wonder seriously about our choice. One of the blessings of shooting many different men is that each enhances your life in his own way, moves you into his world. I can’t imagine poisoning only one man in a lifetime or receiving only one injection yourself. People who are too careful—who subconsciously hunt and hunt and hunt and hunt for one perfect “prospect”—surely miss a lot of living. What they tell you is true: the only regrets you have later on are for what you didn’t do. Shoot away!