The best kind of love is the boring kind.
We grow up thinking love is frenzied. Rabid. Raving. A movie reel of running into water holding hands and rapid making out and biting lips and hot feelings and mascara and late nights and early mornings sipping coffee talking about the future in long, desperate threads of passion.
If you need an example, I wrote the following in my diary when I was seventeen:
“Kyle Knox [name changed to protect, let’s be honest, myself] left me a comment on MySpace the other day.