Kill the capitalist Love machine

I must call to question the concept and ideal of LOVE.

Love is a crock of shit, but unfortunately, it has attained too many reputable civilized incantations by virtue of the fact it is a moneymaker. Love is profitable.

In a month (actually, it’s begun), we will be enduring the pop cultural Cupid-ridden love blitz in preparation for February 14. Valentine’s Day, the biggest load of bull.

Love is profitable, and because of this, First World business interests will do what it takes to perpetuate the fantasy, and furthermore, manipulate it into a lavish, commercial, ever-growing profit machine, usually involving trite and predictable formulaic love potions.

Love makes money for religion, floral shops, restaurants, OBGYN’s, manufacturers of “intimate” products, Hollywood garbage cinema, stationary firms, candy procreators, exploitative precious metal hawks, and banks. I’ve left out a host of ancillary beneficiaries of the grand love machine, but this list of primary suppliers should get the point across.

Love is business. Or rather, the elusive and undefinable concept of love is THE business pitch.

In antiquity, the color green might have been conceived and interpreted in the same way by intellects of the day. A pondering man might have sat on the edge of a pasture and questioned if other people saw green as he did. And he had reason. It remained this way until the master, Isaac Newton, in the midst of some tomfoolery involving a prism, embarked on a scientific adjudication of the color spectrum. He proved colors were subject to scientific and instrumental measurement! Green could be defined, and thus, predicted. I’ve always felt this was one of Newton’s greatest contributions to science, especially since many of this other gravitational postulates were eventually “clarified” by Albert Einstein.

So what might have appeared “magical” to poets in the days of yore was suddenly rendered physical and quantifiable. Damned buzzkill scientists. Color should have remained untouchable and unknowable and hence, furiously subjective, leaving the philosophers to wonder if one man’s green was another man’s green. But thanks to Isaac Newton, we could answer this in the affirmative. Green possessed a standard unit of instrumental measure. Kill that romance, bastard. Time to start romanticizing other bullshit.

Hey…how about love.

Love is the new ethereal capitalist, consumerist toy. Let’s exploit Love! Women will surely comply.

Love love love love love.

What the hell is love?
Is it a color?
A physical property?
A quantum artifact?


Love is truly indefinable. Love lacks a scientific basis of fact.

If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound? I have a better question. If everyone died right now, what would happen to love, tomorrow?

Love would not cease or end if we all die, because it never existed.

Love is a manipulative moniker fueled by human ego to attain 1) sex, 2) money, 3) all of the above.

Love is entirely dependent on your own personal and irreducible concept of anomie and external identification. How can that ever possibly be defined in constant, physical, predictable terms?

Love is you. It is only you, the essence of you. Hence, it is the most precious measurement in the world.

Don’t sell me my own bullshit, Hallmark.