Captured Thought: Livre d'Amour

Yesterday, while with my friends (one, my best friend, a girl; the other, her boyfriend, a boy) and their romantic habits, walking through the streets of Glenview like a bunch of late-night delinquents, I was struck by an epiphany (actually, the epiphany came hours earlier, but this setting is far funnier, and entirely true).
My epiphany? My brilliant idea destined to revolutionize the fiction industry--a novel about love, written by a young'in, and written for young and old alike? Thanks for asking! It struck me as I walked that late-night street: alone in the dark, unfortunately listening to my friends quite blissfully showing/macking their profound love for one another.
A great image, I know. But I was there.
Anyway, "revenons au mouton", as my french romantic-minded cousins would say; it struck me that this frustration I'd been feeling (that had been slightly amplified by the sheer bliss of my enamored buds, though one could say they themselves are quite beyond the budding stage of their feelings for one another) was probably because of pent-up moments, feelings, thoughts, and memories not yet driven to the point of sheer beaten-to-death awkwardness with my exes.
Oh.
If one hasn't been taking notes of my recent history or brain patterns, one should take into account that I'm very relationship-oriented. A lot of "ex" stuff floating around in life. Yes, it's quite grand.
Anyway, I was struck with the idea to write a book, a chronicle of a disenchanted lover of love. This is one with many exes with whom he has left things unsaid, and who finds himself lost, unable to feel that emotion most essential to him-- all because of tinfoil-wrapped, two month-old, leftover love. And believe me, that leftover love stanks, and it probably doesn't even want to be eaten. In fact, he's sure it doesn't; being revisited is the last thing it wants, but he still finds its aroma savory and sweet. Enough metaphor? I believe the image has been put across as to just what this boy is feeling.
Anyway, he has to do something with himself. Something. Lazy, imprudent, rude or just plain drastic, he doesn't really care. Something. Something is all he needs, he thinks, to set him he free--if that's even what he wants--and boy, is he afraid of that, too. That something that he decides on, though foolish, is this: full frontal, uninhibited, face-to-face, surprisal meetings with those he has fallen in--and, except for one--out of love with. No surprise cell phone calls late at night, no "let's set up a meeting" nonsense, but straight-up, doorstep style surprise encounters.
No, it's not a good idea in the least.
Yes, there are better, more civil, far less creepy ways to reconcile and free the soul with one's lost loves. But...since when has that been worth anything, and since when has that level of creativity been sufficient for a novel? Anyhow, I am highly determined, if not destined, to write this novel,
Then, of course, I find out that there is a John Cusack movie revolving around a similar theme.
Well, to that great inconvenience, I say that I am going to go even DEEPER into that iconic quest, I will put even MORE sinister, sickening pressure on the main character and his contingents (which is far too cold of a word for those for whom he has felt things so deep and burning and passionate), and I will make it known that one does not have to be an adult to be able to express onself in such a manner.
And who knows? They might even make a better movie about my book, non?
I think it's a great captured thought, a formidable starting line. Wish me luck.