Everybody blames Love for the hardest hits. It's the damnedest thing, really.

In Luck's realm, a dropped wallet or a rough blind date are the token demons; when Fate's involved, she's the enforcer of the inevitable, regarded from the middle of a dying breath--you know, everybody lower your head and take it in the body; the worst Destiny has ever been blamed for is probably Spaniards tramping into the Philippines and planting bibles everywhere; and Faith--well, I can't comfortably conjure up anything she's ever been blamed for: people are always in a rush to polish her f cking pedestal.

I think I've gotten my point across without bringing Hope into it. Damn it, Hope's not even applicable to this argument. She's that sunny path, you know, that a lot of people hop on thinking that it ends with me; Hope's concerned with sweet bribery, gentle dreams, all of that happy rot. When the rest of the lot has failed in producing the desired effect, people always have her to turn to. Every human being holds out for Hope's company.

Hope is a good friend of mine, don't get me wrong. She'll tell you that Love--that's me, for those of you slow on the uptake--isn't half as bad as all the blame history has heaped on my shoulders. And let me tell you, these shoulders are taking on more weight everyday. There's been a lie generated that I'm the sole cause for all the head and heart ache in the world. All the little teenagers sniffling into their shirtsleeves, the lovers blasting away their significant others into something significantly dead, or the mothers breaking their honor into little pieces to feed their twelve children.

?It?s such a shame,? people will say, ?and all for Love.? That?s another brick to add to the pile I?m hefting around.

Hell, I?ll wind up taking the heat for the sob stories convicted criminals tell in television interviews. It?s never fear or rage or plain old undiluted passion that drives them; it?s always Love they?re pointing the finger at. Thanks, man. Thanks a lot. I?ve learned to cringe whenever I hear the phrase, ?in the name of Love.? Someone always has to reference me--and meanwhile, I?m miles away fusing together a nice, clean engagement between two perfectly ordinary people.

When did people so conveniently forget all the good I do in the world? My efforts span nations, cross continents. It?s my damn glue that holds together a race of civilized monkeys that would otherwise have only Reason to fall back on: who the hell ever wrote a good piece of poetry about Reason? For centuries I?ve been the foremost muse on this planet, breathing the g ddamn essence of divinity into the brains of most every artist worth being remembered. I exist in ink, in clay, in stone, in monuments touched by the hands of tourists in afternoon heat.

I am a father?s eyes the first time he holds his newborn child; I am the silk dress the evening of a wedding proposal; I am the green of the grassy grave plot well-tended with affection and infused with memories. You will encounter me in an infant?s grasp or a lover?s embrace. Stick close to me, and you?ll find I?m not so bad after all: I?ve got a fresh taste, a sweet scent, a nice figure--because I am all those things you learn to love in any other person.

So why, lately, is everybody storming my gates? What did I ever do that was not preceded with all the usual disclaimers? Like a bunch of little kids with skinned knees, you're all wailing and clutching me as if I'm the one who pushed you.

F ck you all; I love you.