Platonic love is an insatiable love for plate tectonics, "platonic" being a portmanteau of "plate" and "tectonics." It has nothing to do with some inconsiderate Grecian know-it-all jerk that decided to drop dead at a wedding, because plate tectonics doesn't have time to see if old toga-wearing fossils with beards and big brains are amazing opossum impersonators. Git lorst.
“I don't love you. And, yet, I love you. I do love you and I don't love you. How illogical.”
“Congratulations. Nobody loves you back.”
“And then I get left out... I still love you... I think.”
“And then there are these peons whom I owe nothing to. Love is evol!!!”
A dishwasher's stance on platonic love
“*low humming alongside muffled swishing sounds*”
Plates have nothing to do with platonic love, either. So what if you see them and use them everyday like a loved one? You make their existence a living hell with your saliva and the scorching hot sauces and slimy soups and greasy meat and toxic genetically modified organisms that you pile onto them like a merciless sociopath.
Are plates really that masochistic?
Home plate. Always being stolen in the most passionate and lustful manner. Home plate is always on your mind, and as you make a mad dash to home plate from third base, home plate is all you can see. Home plate's ever-so distinctive form and feel... It drives you crazy. As you run, run, run towards home plate... YOU'RE OUT!!!
Love for home plates never pays off.