After I broke up with N.T.—or, more properly, after N.T. broke up with me, that fucker, not that I’m bitter—I had a stunningly obvious realization.
Every book we’ve ever read and every movie we’ve ever seen has told us that love is something you feel for someone who is the perfect best friend, the perfect roommate, the perfect lover, the perfect intellectual companion, and the perfect conversationalist.
Clearly only a raving lunatic would expect to find all these in one person. So, just as clearly, this can’t be what love is.
That was my realization about love. My question now is: so what the hell is it?
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