My Favorite Insult


I know people mean I’m not paying enough attention to the romantic last stand – romance, not as in kissy-face behavior, but romantic in the older sense of the word.  The kind of people that die trying to take hills that are never going to be theirs.  Or die for want of their beloved.  Romantic like Romeo and Juliette are romantic.  Someone’s got to die for that kind of romance to work and frankly, whatever my issues may be, wanting to die pointlessly isn’t among them.

But from my perspective, why die when you could skip the hill altogether and get what you want through some other means?  Why perish for love when you can pick up the phone or write a letter or show up at the front door and do what it takes?  And if your beloved runs off and marries another, well… I guess you’d better speak up before he/she does, right?

I mean, I’m in the throes of my own romantic misery: I’m entirely convinced that this person, this body, these eyes, this personality, these traits, these fractures are the end-all-be-all of the rest of my romantic (in the kissy-face sense of the word) life.  I mean, I’m there.  And if I have to get over it, I can say with all certainty that the person I’ll have to become to pull that off isn’t someone that I want to meet, let alone be.   That’s got to be sufficiently romantic for the most die-hard romantic comedy subject matter expert.

Even so, even then.

F*ck.  If the sh!t isn’t working, do something else.  You aren’t getting the results you want with the things you’ve been doing?  Well, it isn’t like you’ve got anything to lose at this point.  Do something else.  If it isn’t working, change tactics.  You can always go back to the old method of reaching failure if you don’t like experimenting with new ways to find success.

Pragmatist.  I’ll own the insult and thank you for noticing.


My Favorite Insult

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