Stepping Up

I FAILE To See Anything But Love, Photo by BradensEye featuring the power duality of famed fav artists of mine

The bonds that don’t break us will certainly make us. I’m not specifically sure when this realization became my personal big-bang theory. Although, it’s hardly as if it’s solely mine intimately. But, it was this celestially tremendous notion that’s morphed into the best aliveness potion for me. Everyone’s got the capacity to rearrange their perception of what to cue in lieu of blame or excuses. Some relations trample us so much we end up with tragic combustion. Others are the building blocks of our entire life arc of commotion. The Kuhl factor (as I’ll call it, harping on the jazz of my surname, pronounced like “cool”) is the promises of love it creates. Stepping up is the pinnacle of existential experiencing. How the more you agree to jump right on through your poop hoops, the larger your return on investment toward immaculate living.

You supply the truth and I’ll supply the trust ~Avi Fleischer, Love Takes A Little More

Unadulterated relationships are a bit of a unicorn. People are naturally messy. While this disorder can be grotesquely literal, I’m actually citing our propensities for the masterful manners in which we swiftly screw up our connections. And I don’t mean in that hormonally horny to the hilt vampy vixen way. We, humans, are havens for hardship. It’s peculiar in that I’d prefer to ponder as I assume: whereby, wouldn’t we rather be having totality tip in our favor? Besides, it’s wholly capable of being considered funny, if it weren’t causing perpetual blues. Instead, this ravenous status intensifies. Similar to waiting on your frozen lip-smackingly delicious Fine&Raw chocolatier truffle to melt in your mouth. We’re just inbred experts at making a stink instead of having a good think. Notwithstanding, thoroughly reasoning does require a reliable language of intelligence.

Casing my point involves all historical corridors of me chasing my own dirty tail for many moons. There are tons of former boyfriends, even a hardy handful of girlfriends, and ample family arguments that I could rip my heart open to tell you about. (Note, I’ve left my bosses out, as I still need to get professionally paid. If I retire, and they’re six feet under, only maybe then will names readily match any manure remarks.) I’ll remedy the lot of them by emphasizing the private renovation of one particular pair of dear ones to me. The following tale is the condensed…