I hate Pizza Hut.
There are several reasons why. First of all, in sixth grade my family let me take one of my friends there. The pizza gave me diarrhea so we had to keep stopping on the way home. My friend thought it was gross and made fun of me at school.
In high school I went again because someone from work was having a going-away party. No diarrhea, so that was great, but as I drove home a car slammed straight into the driver's side of my red Mustang. My head cracked the window.
I will never forget the sound. Then the adrenaline rush, I actually felt it, a physical surge through my stomach and head. Next I had this thought, “I am going to kill whoever gets out of that vehicle.” As I drove away in my limping car, my illusion of control was shattered. You are not guaranteed safety. You can be minding your own business in the far lane of two, and a 81 year old man without a drivers license can miss all the stop signs.
Sometimes to talk about love you have to talk about betrayal. It hits you like a 2001 Buick Regal and there is nothing you could have done to prevent it, control it, or predict it.
There was a time once, in a garden somewhere, when love was perfect. Then we left that place and that possibility.
To love is to risk.