A brief diversion from “the story.” Or post apocalypse.
The very worst thing about cheating, fucking around and completely shattered – and I mean SHATTERED – hearts, especially if it is someone you actually had a real, fantastic bond with, is that you have totally bought into the whole idea that one day you and your love will be that old couple, you know, the ones that you see, the wrinkly old ones that walk hand and hand down the beach in ill-fitting swimming costumes, but you can see the love. The adoration. The total comfort. The love story. Those cute oldies that tell their great-grandchildren funny, cute and REAL stories about their partner, sometimes ribbing him, and winking at the littlies about “how silly was great-granddad, what a goose he was, but you gotta love him, huh?” That used to be us, that was where we were heading. We were THAT couple. The couple our friends admired, and we were (seriously) often asked what our secret was. I was robbed of that. They stole that from me. I know that it sounds lame, and has no meaning for those that haven’t been anywhere near where I have been these past few years. But that is the grief I suffer.
Normal whiny transmission will resume soon