Are you a gelatinous pool of longing yet? Are you a perfumed garden of madly blooming purple explosions? Are you throbbing and gooey and half-nauseous with that delicious sickness some people called love? If not, I don't know what to tell you.
By all astrological reckoning your gut should be swarming with drunk butterflies and the clouds should be taking on the shapes of mating horses. If you're not half-drowning in these symptoms, I implore you to find a way to pry open the floodgates.