The spice of life is bullshite. It’s an excuse for men to spread their seed, and for women to be treated to the best restaurants 6 nights a week. Because even god took a day of rest, probably to get her nails done.

The variety pack had to be invented by a man. Why elect only one cereal, no matter how good it is? Variety packs are for cowards. And we’ve all been cowards, or maybe some of us haven’t really found our favorite cereal yet. Sometimes though, you worry you’re missing something real and deep because you haven’t compromised and learned to make someone else happy. You haven’t discovered responsible, accountable, and loyal within yourself. Would you be reckless with someone else’s heart? So you stay in the wrong relationship because at least it’s practice. Training wheels.

I’ve been in love with ideas, games, and conversations. Then you grow up and make practical safe choices, like a white button-down and A-line-skirt, because you have a closet full of nothing to wear with the tags still on.

Everything is compromise; there is no perfect. I mean, we all have baggage, it’s about finding matching luggage. So you find it waiting for you on life’s big conveyor belt. It suits you. Now you have someone safe under your arm. They meet your needs, up until a point—the point will come later. See, they bring you matzoh ball soup, and buy you new toilet paper (the good kind) before you knew you were running low. And they offer you their French fries because they think your diet sucks. They find your to-do list, and do some for you, even the tampons. You can talk about anything; and even better, you really trust them. They love you 100% for you, even your bitten nails and cellulite. They don’t care about your crowd, your salary, your diction, or your rack. Okay, they care about your rack, but they walk your dog and whisper I love you right before you’re really asleep. And they’re smart and witty, charming, and good. The kind of good we all want, the safe kind. They won’t hurt you; you’ve found your soft place to fall. Now you’ve got everything that should make you ecstatic… but you’re soul is restless. Something’s missing; it should feel messier. Even entertaining the idea of someone new should feel wrong. But you do it, repeatedly, especially when things are good and easy. It’s human nature to take things for granted: our health and especially people. But you always hold your own cell phone, and you tuck business cards in your back pocket just incase. There’s something more out there. You remember that something when you recall the beginnings of things. Spring fever. There’s banter and fierce eye contact; you remember how they touched you. You bite your lower lip more. My god, you’re onto something. Your favorite colors are brighter.

Well snap out of it. It’s not any indication of what’s right for you; it’s familiarity. That excitement and thrill is usually just you caught up in you, doing what you do best… Drama Majer. It’s pathologic; it explains your habits. But it feels good and exciting, so it has to be right. Except the last time you felt this it was all wrong. How do you know when to trust your inner compass? When is a spark really just a synapse?

And bullshite, happiness is digital; you can flip a switch. It’s all a journey, and the torment is part of it all, and it’s all delicious. And it drips and sticks like honey. Love is a fcuking mess. But you learn, and you teach yourself to love with napkins and handiwipes because that’s what grown ups do.