I love history. I love studying it, and reading about it, and basically I love everything about it. Not really cultural history but mostly military and political history.
I have butterflies trying to escape the cage of my stomach when I make notes on Cold War.
The butterflies move up to my throat, choking me when I read of the Indian independence movement.
They bubble up, liquidise and fall off my eyes as tears, staining my perfectly written answers about the Great Terror, the Holocaust, the genocide of the Kurds, the Armenians, the Cambodians.
And I know I dishonour the dead, when the butterflies in my stomach flutter electrified, excited at each suave political or military move their oppressors made.
Teheran, Yalta, Potsdam. How many girls get more butterflies in her stomach thinking about Roosevelt, Stalin and Churchill than her boyfriend?