A Quiet End to a Spectacularily Ill-fated Romance...

So, gentle reader, a report.

I have broken up with The Man. He will be moving out at the end of the month. I just returned from the roof deck where I did a rousing rendition of;

Free at last, free at last, Good God Almighty, I'm free at last!

The seagulls whirling by were largely unaffected, but then again, I can't think of a more jaded bird.

This is the crux of it;

You can't keep loving somebody who can't love anybody back.

Pretty simple, I know, but that situation has a time factor. You can't know that's what's happening until some time goes by, and six months was what it took for me to know The Man just cannot love anybody. While it sucks for me, really, I'm the lucky one. I know I can love somebody. I just did.

And I'll do it again. Somebody else is one day going to be lucky enough to have me care about them. What I have to work on is not avoiding my own life by becoming involved with people who are incapable of dealing with their own. Not so easy. I'm sure there is a delicious, delicious brew of psychological reasons that predispose me to being attracted to men with serious problems, but you know what? Get back on the horse is what I say.

I have two options. Restock the moat of Castle Crocodile with all kinds of fuck you, or get back out there while I still remember the good parts about being with someone.

It's even given me a great new idea for a t-shirt slogan;

I don't put out for guys who won't hold hands

It may sound trivial, but it really is the small things that give the game away. I've got a list of deal-breakers that I'm damn well going to use next time out.

* Won't hold hands? Get over yourself.

* Any sign of excessive boozing? Forget it.

* Keeps people important to him segregated like Post-War Berlin? What the hell are you hiding?

* Makes you the last stop on the stress-rolls-downhill train? Blow me.

* Won't give out back rubs no matter how many they ask from you? Quit being so goddamn selfish.

* A great apologizer? No thanks, Zorro; I'd rather you weren't such a cock so often in the first place.

There are so very many of us who spend our lives doing anything we can to avoid acknowledging that life needs to be worked at, that it's hard, that it's short, but that it's all we have. You never get any of that time back. One ticket, one ride.

There are always problems, and always will be, but Jesus H. Christ, be an active participant in your own life. Sort it the fuck out, and keep sorting it. Hiding from it doesn't do a damn thing but isolate you from possibility. Our options are diminished enough; by circumstance, by physical limitation, by the assholes around us, that not acting in your own best interests to find a way to be happy with yourself is essentially suicidal.

There is nothing honourable about self-destructive behaviour. No integrity. Self-destruction is fear left to run rampant.

It is, to be blunt, a pussy move.