Love, I fear, has been kidnapped by our culture, torn from her sheets in the middle of the night and put in new, unrecognizable robes. Stripped from her humble clothing, she’s been clad in gowns, drizzled with wealth, baptized in the shallow waters of sensuality and made to parade the streets. We’ve enshrined her façade in magazines and movie screens.

She has been forced her to re-pen her manifesto. No longer does it read: “I, love, the one who binds and glues and saves and heals am known by many names: consistency, sacrifice, resolve, hope. With my steadfast help, wrong can be made right, dark can be made light, all is well, all is well, all is well.”

Instead, her charge sounds something like this: “If it doesn’t feel good, find something new. It shouldn’t be challenging, and if it is you’re doing something wrong. When it doesn’t make sense, give up. When it’s not thin and pretty, move on. If you aren’t the center of your world—find a way to get yourself there again.”