In the end you must discount every argument I defend, every idea I contend, all remarks that I make and every action I undertake, for ultimately they are all self-fulfilling. Self-righteous, pompous, arrogant and unwilling, as a rogue I must conclude that I've come to see how hopelessly rude I am, that love is nothing but a scam, and that I will never be satisfied.
If I am denied certain qualities I am not happy, or if I must tolerate too many others I am apt to call it a day. There simply seems to be no way to reach an accord. Either I am irked to no end, or bored all too readily, or at the mercy of both, steadily pushed to abort, run away, take leave, manifest any excuse for a prolonged absence that might transport me to the darkest side of the moon, where I might lick all the wounds of inevitable disappointment and dissatisfaction.
It is a pity how ultimately I must ask myself "what the fuck was the attraction any way?"
So, yank me from the race, pull me from the running, for I just can't seem to see how a lifetime of compromise can lead to anything but years of her livid and often valid complaining and his cunning strategy to escape by silent resignation and subtle evasion of the rules of the relationship.
the art of love
l.m