I walk through the park all the time and I see you “love birds” sitting on your benches, being all affectionate. It makes me sick. We all know that those kisses you insist on planting time after time on your companion’s cheek are merely meant to bother the respectable passersby. These public displays, they must be something carried over from a primitive time when it was also acceptable to fling poop and beat one another over the head with discarded skeletons. We get it: you like each other. But seriously, keep it to yourselves. Nobody needs to see that.
Kissing is something that is acceptable to do with a loved one, but that doesn’t mean everyone needs to see it. You wouldn’t feel comfortable walking into a stranger’s kitchen and grabbing some food out of their fridge, would you? You wouldn’t sit down in the middle of the street to defecate, would you? You wouldn’t walk down the street with your work friends, one hand clasped in their palm and the other nestled in their back pocket, would you? You wouldn’t sit with your mom or dad smooching on the porch to show your affection for one another, so what’s the deal with you “significant others?”
The thing that bothers me even more than anything else is that nobody does anything about it! Why does everyone in our culture insist on letting lovers kiss one another in public? Nobody considers for a second that these little public pecks on the cheek are just the sorts of things that will one day lead to a marriage, which will inevitably lead to a divorce. We, as a culture, have to nip these things in the bud.
Doesn’t anybody care about the children? All of this kissiness will only lead to a pregnancy, a marriage, potentially an STI of some kind and, in the end, a child with no home. If we are to progress as a civilized social system, we need to put a stop to all the shenanigans.
It surely doesn’t help that when you see one of these couples, holding hands on the sidewalk as they will, and you watch them for a few minutes, that they feel the need to sneer at you, to come over and ask what your problem is, to eventually punch you in the gut and tip you over into the gutter. I mean, everybody knows that the only reason they’re holding hands is so that passers-by will gawk at their love — their love that is private from everyone else, of which nobody can have a taste, that they share with no one. We all know that these “love birds” are putting on display the one thing that nobody else can have, just for the mere joy of driving everyone else into the depths of bottomless depression, unrelenting and entirely untreatable, save for the little moment we might share in the same glow of communion that these “public lovers” are privy to. Don’t get me wrong, it must be stopped; if the public displays stopped, so too would the depression. But when one stumbles onto a couple in the midst of displaying, we all know that the only sure solution to the crushing weight of sadness it inspires is to stand motionless, absorbing the stink of hormones as efficiently as hormonal enzymes will allow.
What makes them so special? Why do they get to love and nobody else? Public or not, something really must be done with these jerk offs who choose to love. Did you know that they don’t limit their displays just to the sidewalks? No, once they’re back in the sanctity of their bedrooms, under their filthy love rags, into their jimjams, even then, they keep on with the hand holding. They hug all through the night, probably on the off chance that I happen to be peering into their bedroom window, disgusting perverts that they are.
Why do they do it? We all know that they’re destined for divorce or, at the very least, breakup. And even if they make it to marriage and beyond, one of them will just die. Then what are they going to do? Nothing, that’s what. No more kissing, no more handholding, they’ll just rot alone in their lonely apartments, baking cookies for nobody, and writing poetry about unrequited love.
