I’ll never forget our 2am drive to Mt. Diablo, to best view the lunar eclipse. You sang to me all the way there and back, as I faded into and out of a dreamlike state. When we got to the top of the mountain, we reclined on the hood of your car under a blanket of stars. You kept me warm with your arms and lips. We didn’t see the eclipse on that hazy night, but it was so incredibly romantic that I cannot begin to reconcile it with your God damn annoying ass habits!
To be more specific, Kenny, I apparently was unable to properly fold your Triple A map. “It’s all in the corners. You’ve got to line them up just so,” you lectured. It seemed I had been slowing the entire navigation process. Why did you need a map anyway, Mr. “I have an amazing sense of direction and can find my way out of any jungle in record time”? It must have been a fluke, then, when you couldn’t locate your favorite Oakland eatery, so we had to settle for the closest Taco Bell. It could only have been the harsh weather conditions that caused you to become terribly flustered upon driving through the Mojave Desert that night. I just wanted a warm bed to sleep in. Alone. Instead, we were stuck in 3 feet of mud in the middle of the desert, with no cell phone reception nor sign of life anywhere I looked, unless I counted you. You offered no comfort but two stale Oreo cookies that you scrounged from the trunk. (Okay, that was actually rather sweet of you. But you’re missing the point here.)
There’s more, Kenny. Hear me out for a change. You demonstrated moral superiority via a boycott of all products made in Asia. How’s that working for you today? This deemed you unable to purchase anything except USA Weekly. And what a snoozer that publication is! On the other hand, you insisted on my car registration stickers, when the DMV mistakenly sent me a second set. Hmm, morality of convenience is rather convenient. Isn’t it, darling?
What truly tipped the scales was not the night we spent stuck in the mud, nor the map-folding tutorials, nor the boycott of 99% of all products sold in the US. What did it, my former beloved, was that one astonishing moment when you reached into the dark recesses of my kitchen trashcan --I repeat: my kitchen trashcan-- to pull out a recyclable milk carton. You therein marked our demise.
I loved you, but I forgot why. I was spent. I needed to boycott you, not Asia. So, my dearly departed, keep the recyclables. Keep folding your maps with the corners lined up just so. Keep every last version of US Weekly, to help cure your insomnia. Keep it all. Just keep it all away from me, so that I can get back to admiring you from afar, or not.