People often say, “Life is what you make of it.” I think that is very true and well, I suppose this is the result one gets when he is neither ambitious nor particularly creative.

You know, I used to think that I wanted to grow old with someone. I used to think that if I met the right person, I would be happy. I realize what a crazy thought that was. There is no such thing as perfection. No matter how wonderful things may be in the beginning, monotony will eventually rear its ugly head. Passionate kisses that seem to last for hours will invariably dwindle until they eventually become nothing more than a peck on the cheek that is received at pick-up and drop-off points. We will hold hands, but it will not be out of genuine desire or affection, but rather our insecure need for reassurance that there is just someone, anyone, sitting at our side. We will stifle one another. We will break promises. We will become strangers, and when it ends we will blame each other. She will say we didn’t talk enough and I will say we didn’t fuck enough, and all that will remain are the countless movie stubs that I will keep in my wallet.  

I don’t really know what brought that on. I wish I could say I feel sad. I wish I could say I feel depressed. I wish I could say I feel something, but I can’t. I really don’t feel anything at all and I don’t really know if that is a good or bad thing. Who knows? Maybe indifference is a blessing.