Passion. The word itself make me feel tired. I accept the word when we are talking about the Passion of Christ, because that is about suffering, and as an expert in the Classical Languages, I know that the noun 'passion' comes from the latin verb 'to suffer'.
I get that gay, tedious, hormonally charged literature could encourage people to think that passion means love. But passion is a strong word. It's not about a cup of tea with your lover after a grand session in the bed -that's just fun. It's about murdering your own children, jumping off a building and writing the name of your lover in your own blood, as you expire in a pool of your own vomit and excreta.
And don't be thinking I have some hidden depths here, that I am waiting for some man to turn up and whisk me off and show me the passion - fuck that. If some man were so sure of himself to think he could 'unlock the passion' in me, I hope he enjoys listening to me talk about work, my friends' relationships and the latest television shows I am watching. Because that is all he would be getting. Passion in a romantic sense tends to end badly, if the films are anything to go by or that show 'Jeremy Kyle' and the middle pages of celebrity magazines. It's a Holy Show.
These days, the word passion is everywhere, and I don't see twenty foot wooden crosses planted in the earth, with bloody-handed, droopy-headed martyrs dangling from their wrists from splintering, rough-hewn wood, experiencing the real passion. People are simply using the word to make themselves sound interesting.
'I'm passionate about grouting' said my plumber. He fucking wasn't, the lazy little shite, unless passion means handing all the work over to a bunch of cretinous, cack-handed morons, whose idea of passion is skiving off and sitting about like lumps.Passion, fuck off.