Well, that girlfriend thing is over. Deep down, there was something fundamentally incompatible about us, to paraphrase someone else who worded it better than I could have. I was accused of walking away too easily, but I'm pretty certain that when a book ends, there aren't extra chapters lying around for me to find. And sequels almost never deliver.
There was a slow drip from the roof that I ignored but knew would bring the whole house crashing down someday. Afterwards, I looked at the carnage and didn't wonder "What the fuck?" I looked at it and I thought "Oh, so that was what that drip was all about."
Sometimes you recognize the drip before the house has even been built. Keep building? I say yes. Enjoy the sun while you can; maybe it won't rain for a while yet.
But if you had asked me in the beginning if I thought it could last forever, I would have told you that I thought it might. I always hope it might. The first question is "what happened?" I broke up with her, I think. She broke up with me, I think. Maybe I broke up with her a little a couple of weeks in advance, and then she broke up with me a little the week before the break-up-actual, and then we broke up semi-consensually. Those are the murky details that form the fact.
I want love, and love was not what I was finding. That can't possibly make me the bad guy. If the relationship turns out to be a carnation, it doesn't suddenly blossom into a rose by gritting your teeth.
I live in the northeast, and I obviously did not take my normal trip out of the country this year, as I probably should have. I chose the worst winter to stay in Dodge, and now it's March, which means it's almost April, and I should probably just sit this out.
So I read to pass the days. Madame Bovary was an indulgent surprise. However, (and I get that no love will ever satisfy her, and therefore even her romance with death was an agonizing failure), but I think suicide as a closing is cheap, both in reality and fiction. I had no sympathy for the character.
I'll never get through anything by Dostoevsky, but I'll keep trying. Crime novels go down like Cheez-It's. Bukowski, Carver, Eggers, and Baudelaire salt the quick reads that don't necessarily leave me staring at the wall once they're over, but have so many twists that I'm compelled to chase them. "Book Thief" was great, and "The Fault In Our Stars" was a winner, although it's unlikely that any teenager in this generation is that articulate and clever.
I'm possibly repeating myself, but riding my bike, whenever possible, has been my net. I'll keep doing that until there is more sunshine than "oyster colored suns," and I'll parlay my ongoing bet that compatibility, fundamental compatibility, awaits me.
And I'll fish some more.