I love the first three months of talking to a woman when she’s so cute and sweet just before you discover that she’s battling about 33 mental illnesses.
The other day, I argued that the performance of love is not the existence of love. I caught a lot of flak for it. My view has not changed, and I do not see it changing anytime soon.
Love in which a man is paraded online like a mannequin for his spending, extolled publicly while the woman sits smiling like a god receiving adoration, and worse, appearing unsatisfied by the worship, is not love. It is spectacle. And spectacle, sustained long enough, becomes a ticking time bomb. When it detonates, it will most likely consume the very man foolish enough to mistake performance for devotion.