Today was my birthday, and my first day back at e2 in almost a year. I wrote a lot of trash in my past here, most of which I attribute to my invincibility as a teenager. For that, I apologize. Now that I am 20, I'll try to write trash with the sophistication associated with that age. Insert laugh track...

The two of them stood there, smoke tumbling from their nostrils. It was late, downtown was deserted, the rain was pouring, and they were somewhere else entirely. Which left the rest of us stuck all alone (with them mind you), getting soaked, not buying coffee. The soggy smoke drifted across my face, nagged at my nose, reminding me why I don’t like cigarettes. Indian ritual turned cash crop turned beacon to amateur nihilists. Art students, both of them. God damn. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good people. Brilliant people, in fact. The kind you wouldn’t mind being trapped with at a cocktail party. But something was occupying their minds, and it wasn’t Lichtenstein or how much they didn’t care about anything.

Those fuckers were in love. You could smell it on them. They were doped like a horse, and that horse’s name is not important.* We watched them as they let the rain bombard their ill-equipped, artist-type “vestments.” They floated farther and farther away from everyone else, on clouds equal parts love and nicotine. They seemed oblivious not only to us, and the rain, and the bitter cold, and the complete lack of coffee, but to their delightful predicament as well. Maybe they didn’t know it yet, but everyone else did. It was ridiculous. They smoke the same kind of cigarettes (Camel 100s, in the hard pack). They hate the same artists (Everyone except maybe that one guy…you know, whatshisname). They fit into each other perfectly, and walk disgustingly well together.

Not that I was jealous or anything. I’ve had more than my share of love. Which gives me just the right perspective to comment on this glorious train wreck. Love is a cruel mistress, like Kathy Bates would be as a dominatrix. I mean it. You see, Robert Palmer was right. Scientists are saying now that love is a chemical addiction to another person. Sympathetic oxytocin release. Given the right atmosphere, curves, smiles, jokes, what-have-you, certain chemicals launch millions of what psychologists call “events” in the synapses of the human brain. Like a lightning bolt in the primordial soup, bang! Love.

I know, not just because I read old copies of Scientific American in my dentist’s waiting room. I know because I’m a junkie, a love fiend. I was there before, spiking my vein for the first time. That one day, that lasted forever, but not long enough. With that one person you’ll never forget, but try not to think about. You know, romantic comedy featuring Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks type bullshit. Fuck that. The truth is, love is a high. The shit feels good. Really fucking good. You’d kill to get it again, and kill if someone took it from you. police report. Those fools are getting hooked and they’re loving every second of it. Fucking art students. They don’t care about anything. Except themselves and their cigarettes.

The rest of us just want coffee. Jesus.

*The horse’s name is Not Important. Seriously, that’s the name of the horse.