On Three Whole Years with an Irritating Irishman.

Things people don't tell you about being in a relationship for three years:
1. You'll have heated arguments over the ingredients of pancake batter. And even if you're right about the fucking baking soda, your boyfriend won't throw out the fetid garble of ingredients that he's already put together, so that the two of you can make something decent for breakfast. You'll inevitably end out glaring at each other over a breakfast that looks like flattened, fried dog-sick. So much for romance.
He'll smack his lips and bite his fork as he devours this so-called breakfast, and you'll despise him for it.
2. You'll realize that the books he's read that used to impress you are, in fact, the only fine literature he's ever read in his entire life. They are limited to the following: One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac. Note the conspicuous lack of estrogen in this enormous reading list. You'll start to consider its impact upon your relationship, and conspire to plant the works of Virginia Woolf around the house wherever he might accidentally pick one up. You'll pray to Virginia for salvation.


Every relationship is an unpredictable weather system. For the most part we have fairly clear skies, but sometimes there are stints in which we don't mesh at all---a few days in which disaster seems imminent; the plane will surely go down in a blaze of lightening-stricken glory--flames and rubble. But miraculously, we survive.
I guess being in love is figuring out how to navigate through the crappy parts to find the light again.
Any time now, the clouds will clear out.
As soon as the smoke from our unsuccessful breakfast drifts out the window, I'll feel infinitely better.