Listen here, you whimsical fuck.

We had a deal. I let you drive this paper white slice of straight cake for the rest of its life on the sole condition that you lead it to true love.  Yet all I have to show for it are a dozen romantic misfortunes that have ripped my heart a hundred new assholes.  I could have pursued financial success, a master’s degree, perhaps a drug or sex addiction, but no. I’m out here following my heart like a fucking idiot.

You were supposed to be my magnetic north, my unseen engine of serendipity, but you’re not an engine of serendipity, are you? You’re a parasite. A despondency monster.  You live not for love, but for the deep well of anguish that opens up when love collapses.  It’s a tale as old as time: boy meets girl, girl rejects boy, sadness vampire attached to boy’s soul grows stronger. Fuck you.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean that.

I’m just frustrated.

Because there is no road map for finding the love of your life. No consecutive string of short-term goals to mark one’s progress, nor series of incremental promotions to climb like a ladder. All I have is you, my ethereal little love penguin, and your instincts haven’t exactly been on point. I have messed up so many good things with women I didn’t deserve from the start simply because you had a bad feeling about it. You create this gold-plaited versions of a person for me to pursue, and then get disappointed when reality doesn’t rise to match it. Yet, for as much as you make me want to scream, you’re the best part of me. You are my humility, my empathy, my capacity for a complex love that could only originate from eternity, and I need you to get your shit together.