http://www.sosuave.net/forum/showthread.php?t=22207 Romanticism is an article of faith.
We know what it's stuffed with: love at first sight, the carriage of frolicking courtships, prancing couples, dialogue consisting of fanstastical banquets, violins and flutes, of ballroom weddings, chandeliers, strangled poetry that converts her every part into some bizzarre infinitude, and of happy homes flowing with enchanting music with 2.3 kids, 2.6 cars, 1.1 garage, and 1.4 dogs.
All in all, the fountain that bubbles this vaperous romanticism is the phrase: star-crossed. Romanticism is not something considered to be 'controlled'. Rather, it seen as something to submit to. This 'star-crossed' love is elevated to the esteemed level known as destiny!
And so this faith makes the man stuffed. These stuffed men float airily through the world. Some pop to fall in the abyss... (and they wonder why suicide is at its highest rate for young men!). Others just stuff themselves more and more so that no matter what is said to them, they are so stuffed that even the sharpest most blatant facts bounce against their rubbery infatuated shells. Some realized that they were stuffed and turned themselves inside out. These unfortunate few shrivel with bitterness and seek revenge with getting laid everywhere and anywhere. But the rest spew out this poison and recover into the Men they were.
Oh forgive me, Hallmark! If I am to doubt Romanticism, I may incur the wrath of all women. But make no mistake: I war with Cupid. The way to victory is not to stab the infected with the truth... they pop and fall or increase their fantasy shell even more! Therefore, let us hold up a mirror to the infected so they see all their maladies and so will cleanse themselves of this rot.
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