Awkward Endings.

New romantic adventures walk plank without TLC. Not T-Boz, Left Eye (R.I.P.) and Chilli, but tender love and care. It's like taking care of a 2-year-old; take your eyes off that kid for more than two seconds, and he's choking on a Brillo pad. Embarking on something new, romantically, requires a shitload of attention. It's hit or miss; rarely do substantial unions form from the mostly-neglected affairs of a date here and there, a couple texts and maybe one brief phone conversation per week.

Old romantic adventures can sink like the Titanic, each room slowly filling with the frigid water of dumb arguments, monotony, and the problems that won't seem to go away. Then, all of the sudden, you're floating in subarctic-temperature water, barely afloat, holding onto an icy blue hand, and you reluctantly realize that the time has come. The ship has sunk, and you have to let go. Jack is dead.

I remember times I'd dial a number, listen to each ring intently, knowing I'd get the voicemail, but mentally chanting "PLEASE DON'T ANSWER, PLEASE DON'T ANSWER" just in case he fucked up in his semi-slumber and hit the green button instead of the red. Story of my life. Why is it so easy for shit to go awkward?

Again, I reiterate -- it's so easy. One date with a coworker where I awkwardly pay for both of us before making out a little and heading to work, turns into befuddled glances, unnecessary tension, and twisted tales of what went wrong. Seven months of (mostly) exclusive sex and fun times eating Lucky Charms mixed into ice cream and drawing surreal cartoons turns into unspoken yet avid hatred. Story of my fucking life. Text someone religiously for two weeks, then barely say hello the next time we cross paths. Have a little sex, and forget it ever happened, while he makes it clear he remembers. There are just so many opportunities for things to go sour, awkward, ridiculous, dumb, or uncomfortable.