The Psychiatric Impact of Holidays on Single Adults

   
Let me set this up for you…

If you happen to be single during the holiday season, you better be prepared for war. I would suggest an ample supply of benzodiazepines, along with a paperback copy of the DSM-IV… just to keep yourself out of a straight-jacket.
  
Thanksgiving, for example, is a holiday generally observed as an expression of gratitude, traditionally to God, for the autumn harvest. For those of you who have never ventured outside of cities, a harvest refers to plants that make food you purchase at places like Whole Foods. Suburbanites know things like this and will be happy to share this type of exciting information with you, ad nauseum.
  
Anyway, it is also a time when kids [not your kids, because you don’t have any that you’re aware of] get a few days off from school - and in certain circles - expect a vacation.
  
What this often means for you is that the time of penance has arrived; a place where you pay for the sins of singlehood by immersing yourself in the complex psychological dynamics of someone else’s family.
  
We travel to places we don’t want to go.

Our behavior is censored.
 
Our “status” is subordinated to the desires of the [more important] family.

And that’s fucked up.

I am not interested in winning a Nobel Peace prize for my efforts at unscrambling a psychiatric minefield; particularly one that courses like a herd of wilder beasts through a group of otherwise sane human beings who’ve spent too much time in close quarters. I know that my presence is, in some way, designed to keep life entertaining, if not thought-provoking, but most people get paid $150/hr for such services.
 
Many find themselves face-to-face with phenomena like:
 
…little Billy’s penchant for playing with matches and gasoline. Mom’s bi-polar condition and its bizarre permutations under the influence of gin. Johnny’s predisposition towards hurling metal forks at relatives during meals. And dad’s obsession with ammo, and lots of it…
     
Single people enter this weird world, often finding it a depressing reminder of why they avoided it in the first place. Extended exposure to it – like radiation - can provoke restlessness, fatigue, headaches, depression…and a creeping sense of surreality bordering on full-blown psychosis.
 
But don’t even think about trying to rationalize this to the people immersed in it, because they are also to be the same people who despise your independence [because they don’t have it], along with your  “arrested adolescence” [another item on their holiday wish list].

I can just hear the vitriol running through their heads…

“Why the hell doesn’t he grow up? Life isn’t just about him. Building a family is endemic to what it means to be human. Is he not human? If not, what is he?” 
   
Ummm…he’s the guy on the news standing in front of that federal building with a sign calling for a boycott of Thanksgiving vacations; particularly ones that do not involve single friends, crap tables, topless beaches and Bacardi Mojitos…just to name a few - in a long line of  - items for which we are blessed and forever thankful…
 
[Factoids: Less than 25 percent of American households are married couples with children younger than 18. And more Americans are remaining single -- 82 million of them, to be exact. Between 1990 and 2000, the number of nonfamily households (where people who are not family members live together or a person lives alone) rose at twice the rate of households of immediate or extended families, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. In Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Louisiana, Mississippi, Nevada, New York and the District of Columbia, the majority of households now are made up of singles].
 

Drifting in Irony

Today I seem to be only semi-conscious. I’ve attempted 3 postings, but can’t seem to finish anything. I guess you could characterize the feeling as “flat.” It reminds me of those hot, humid days in the middle of the afternoon, where everything is white and featureless. My therapist says I struggle with happiness. By that she means that I am having some adjustment issues with regard to accepting and embracing happiness.
 
There’s always something.

I’m heading over to my accountant’s office to sign checks before subjecting myself to a grueling boot camp; something I pay for, by the way. But first I have to change my clothes and pay the housekeeper. Can I pull this off in my current state of mind? Maybe I need a vacation, but every time I plan something I cancel it because I change my mind. I’ve even tried stressing out about things, but it never sticks. And even a bad night’s sleep doesn’t bother me much because I always have another shot at it. These cognitive skills are driving me crazy. I need some conflict, or intensity, or whatever…something that feels a little uncomfortable, but I never find it, unless I do something I don’t feel like doing; which I don’t. I don’t even drive to airports or concerts anymore. Nor do I have to ask anyone for money that’s not mine. So what about freeways and congestion and pollution…and global warming? Shit, how about global terrorism?

What about it?

I can’t stop it.

Hurricanes?

I fly out early.

So what makes life worth living when you’re no longer in conflict with it?
 
Good question. But there is something that is sure to rattle even the most sensible minds: Love.

Yup. Whenever you’re strung out for something intense – or just need a break from the doldrums of happiness - try love. Within days, you’ll feel the intoxication spreading like a virus, rendering normal thought processes useless. As the pathology worsens, you’ll find yourself becoming someone else, and that person may be your worst nightmare. Even local police flinch when called to handle the infamous domestic disturbance, wherein two psychotics battle it out over unresolved issues that neither of them understands; not to mention the people trying to stop it.

In the end, we are so accustomed to stress that not having it feels like something’s wrong. Maybe I’ll die of an aneurism later today…or get run over by a Mini Cooper. But if neither occurs, I’ll just have to get used this surreal, semi-consciousness; a state of being often referred to as peace.

Then again, tomorrow’s always another day.       

She Has Everything, But…

We all have a mental checklist when it comes to people we date. I’ve had several, actually. And not one of them worked for me…even when I ran out of boxes; because people are not a series of line items, no matter what Hollywood tells you perfection is supposed to look like. Projection is projection no matter how you twist it.
   
And while psychotic behavior is something one should NOT include on any list, regardless of the circumstances, this massive gray-zone is open to debate.    
Here’s the insanity at work:

“If only her breasts stood up a little more [that’ll be a problem down the road]. And you know I just have to mention her marginally-redneck social skills…not that they’re all that bad or anything; nothing most people would notice, but do I really want to pass on those genes? And honestly, her hands are a little rougher than I’d like…lotion or no lotion.”

And this mindset is in the throes of spiraling out of control throughout Western Civilization, believe me.  
 
In spite of how dehumanizing it may seem to deconstruct people to a series of line-items and equations, we still do it. I know men who literally carved a living human being into their concept of perfection out of some raw materials they found down at a local bar. The “subject” was height/weight proportionate, pretty, smart, young…and malleable. All she needed was a little tweaking and, alas, the perfect beast would emerge.

And in some cases, she did…at least for now.
  
This is the perspective from which many people today operate – both men and women, only now that middle-age has settled in, we don’t have time to waste playing Dr. Frankenstein.

This is a big problem and one that will probably keep many people single for the rest of their lives.
  
There is no time left for “marginally-redneck” anything, because at this point in your life, you’ve busted your ass to have things your way, and you’ll hire a stripper before going back to Mississippi. In fact, your tolerance for imperfection has gone from 10% down to something near negligible. 
   
Welcome to the birth of a new culture group, where the metaphor of the ticker tape down at the NYSE has found a new home.
 
In many ways this is a sad scenario, and I often feel that the only thing that will ever bring two people together is the desire for children, or the loneliness of old age.

The very concept of marriage is dying at our feet.

So there you have it. The emergence of a new world order of middle-age, single, educated, sophisticated, affluent and discerning “adults” who are now at the top of the food chain and disrupting cultural stability at every turn; including things like the extinction of the human species.In fact, if you exclude illegal immigration from the equation, we have a negative birthrate…and growing.

When you really think about it, cinema is about as close as many of us will ever come to experiencing romantic love…because it’s safer than actually being in love. And if middle-age has taught me anything, it’s just how surreal everything has become, and how objectively we approach something as intangible as love.

Weekend Redux

I’m exhausted.

This weekend was another in a long and colorful series of forays into opportunism and desire. In all the episodes there is a certain roughness; a sense that whatever happened didn’t do so without motive. By motive, I mean ulterior motive; motives that are intended to remain hidden, but never are.

[i.e., “Hey, Jay, this has been an incredible evening. Are you still interested in investing in that property we talked about???” or “I’d love to ski with you. Would you like to take me skiing?”]

Torn scraps of paper with indecipherable names and numbers litter my pockets. Some are cards from people I don’t remember; people who said things that seemed to have a life in the moments they were spoken, but are now dead and gone; just a twisted waste, in line with all the rest for that voracious washing machine of mine that kills everything, but money. And all this because I just don’t give a fuck enough to put them someplace else.

Do I sound depressed?

I’m not, really; at least not in the clinical sense.
 
I’ll sleep for 8 hours, get up, make coffee, write, go to my boot camp, nap for an hour, write, eat, meet friends for a glass of wine or two…and keep moving. See, I always keep moving. The moment I stop moving, feel free to dial 911.

So, I’m okay…in the [aforementioned] clinical sense.
 
It’ll pass as it always does.

There are millions and millions of people who live outside of my life. They remind me of that parallel universe thing that pops up in the news from time to time. We both inhabit the same city, but our lives are invisible to one another. Sometimes I feel so hard that I can’t imagine others not feeling it as well. It’s as though I pushed the entire city another 3 feet closer to the Gulf of Mexico, but it’s just business as usual down at the bank, post office or over in Piney Point.

When I post I am often torn about how much personal information I want to reveal. It’s a tough call, because no matter how much I hear about that parallel reality crap, Dick and Jane have the ability to reach through the wormhole and find me. See, there aren’t exactly any road maps out here, and the only way to understand the journey is to learn to take the hits; even when you’re not in the mood to be cold clocked by an outsider for something you published for an entirely different audience. In this business you can’t exactly pick and choose who comes to the movie. It’s a lot easier to tow the party line; get married, have children, disappear. Not that people who opt for that particular course don’t reappear somewhere along the way. Most do, actually. But while they’re in it, the cocoon keeps them soft and tired.

In my neck of the woods, that isn’t an option. Soft and tired is death out here.

Anyway, here are a few good lines from the weekend:

“They named their daughter, Troy. Can you believe that? Troy! Now this six year old little girl says she wants a big gun, some flashlight batteries and a box of ammonium nitrate.”

“Father? What father? Mine left when I was one, and mom’s been remarried 3 times; all to men like my father…the one who left when I was one…”

“Oh yea, she’s 40 and divorced, with two kids at home. But that doesn’t stop her from getting shit-faced and hosting private get-togethers with teenage boys at some Holiday Inn. She actually told me she doesn’t want her children…and neither does her ex…Well don’t look at me, I have two dogs!”

“This old guy just told me he’d buy me a house if I went with him to Costa Rica…and sleeping with him is optional. Like I’d sleep with him! But the trip and house sound nice…”

This is the mother of all life, folks. The one where one’s eyes are WIDE open and the mind is a moving target.

“No price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.”
 
Friedrich Nietzsche

My Brain Examined

The Unlikely Plight of a “Player”

The Unlikely Plight of a “Player”

As improbable as it may seem, those “villainous” guys you see running around town with a different woman on their arms every five minutes aren’t necessarily as sociopathic as you may think, assume…or otherwise, project.

I’ve known many of the most egregious “players” and “womanizers” [terms assigned loosely to men by women who are either single, desperately searching…or scorned], who suddenly find themselves off the streets and in the arms of someone who literally transforms their lives.
 
It’s so easy to beat up on a guy who’s out there dating; particularly when after a year or two [or 50, for that matter], he’s still hasn’t “settled down.” Well why the fuck should he settle down with anyone other than someone who floors him?

Many women think that their resumes ought to determine their romantic outcomes. They run the numbers in their heads, and if 8 out of 10 items are checked  - and he still doesn’t propose - he’s either 1] commitment-phobic, 2] gay, 3] misogynist…or 4] a complete idiot.
 
So after his 59th date of the month, he walks into a grocery store and meets a woman - in the produce isle - who renders everything that came before, utterly and completely meaningless. All the weird stalkers, bad press and confrontations in parking lots in the middle of the night fade into oblivion and off the face of the planet as he and this woman examine the texture of a papaya.

Talking about pissing some people off.
 
He’s “laid waste” to half the city only to find someone in Birkenstocks and a paisley sundress who just stops the clock. This is the Draconian nature of human bonding. If someone is going to commit their lives to a monogamous relationship with another human being, the intoxication it produces better damn well be worth the journey.

There aren’t any simple pathways through this complex web of human interaction; but finding a completely unexpected connection with a person who literally drops you to your knees can make the process worth the annoying labels, dates from Dante’s Inferno…and the usual fallout from sleeping with women you do not intend to see again.

One must remember:

1] Women don’t sleep with men.

2] Men sleep with women.
 
3] Don’t forget it.

[See my previous blog on the woman’s cultural birthright to the moral high ground].

In urban circles, finding the right match is even more analogous to winning the lotto. There are no road maps, and the journey is as circuitous as it is complex. If you don’t believe me, try jotting down 10 items you seek in a man or woman, and I promise you they will exist in people you already know, but with whom you do not share that thing we all refer to as a CONNECTION.

So, for clarification purposes, I hereby submit my definition of the aforementioned term:
 
“Connection” [in the context of relationships]: A feeling that reaches back to origins and mush; a time before memory and consciousness; a resonance that connects all the dots of a lifetime into a single moment; God’s most heavy-handed assertion of self…his lap-dance, if you will.
 
So the next time you find yourself labeling some guy a “sociopathic, self-consumed, adolescent-in-house-arrest,” just try including the above definition on your resume.   

Craig’s List Gold-Digger Comes Clean

This recent “Craig’s List” posting was forwarded to me from a friend. The response to the woman’s solicitation is alone worth the read.

Have fun, and feel free to repost. Enjoy!
 
“What am I doing wrong? Okay, I’m tired of beating around the bush. I’m a beautiful (spectacularly beautiful) 25 year old girl. I’m articulate and classy. I’m not from New York.

I’m looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a
year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is
middle class in New York City, so I don’t think I’m overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you
send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200-250.
But that’s where I seem to hit a roadblock. 250,000 won’t get me to central
park west. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment
banker and lives in Tribeca, and she’s not as pretty as I am, nor is she a
great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

- Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics-
bars, restaurants, gyms -What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys,
you won’t hurt my feelings -Is there an age range I should be targeting (I’m
25)?

- Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east side
so plain? I’ve seen really ‘plain jane’ boring types who have nothing to
offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I’ve seen drop dead gorgeous girls
in singles bars in the east village. What’s the story there?

- Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows - lawyer, investment banker,
doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they hang out?
Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?

- How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for MARRIAGE
ONLY

Please hold your insults - I’m putting myself out there in an honest way.
Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I’m being up front about it.
I wouldn’t be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn’t able to match
them - in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a nice home and
hearth.”

THE ANSWER

Dear Pers-431649184:

“I read your posting with great interest and have thought meaningfully about
your dilemma. I offer the following analysis of your predicament.

Firstly, I’m not wasting your time, I qualify as a guy who fits your bill;
that is I make more than $500K per year. That said here’s how I see it.

Your offer, from the perspective of a guy like me, is plain and simple a
crappy business deal. Here’s why. Cutting through all the B.S., what you
suggest is a simple trade: you bring your looks to the party and I bring my
money. Fine, simple. But here’s the rub, your looks will fade and my money
will likely continue into perpetuity…in fact, it is very likely that my
income increases but it is an absolute certainty that you won’t be getting
any more beautiful!

So, in economic terms you are a depreciating asset and I am an earning
asset. Not only are you a depreciating asset, your depreciation accelerates!
Let me explain, you’re 25 now and will likely stay pretty hot for the next 5
years, but less so each year. Then the fade begins in earnest. By 35 stick a
fork in you!

So in Wall Street terms, we would call you a trading position, not a buy and
hold…hence the rub…marriage. It doesn’t make good business sense to “buy
you” (which is what you’re asking) so I’d rather lease. In case you think
I’m being cruel, I would say the following. If my money were to go away, so
would you, so when your beauty fades I need an out. It’s as simple as that.
So a deal that makes sense is dating, not marriage.

Separately, I was taught early in my career about efficient markets.

So,I wonder why a girl as “articulate, classy and spectacularly beautiful”
as you has been unable to find your sugar daddy. I find it hard to believe
that if you are as gorgeous as you say you are that the $500K hasn’t found
you, if not only for a tryout.

By the way, you could always find a way to make your own money and then we
wouldn’t need to have this difficult conversation.

With all that said, I must say you’re going about it the right way.

Classic “pump and dump.” I hope this is helpful, and if you want to enter
into some sort of lease, let me know.”

What is it with Women and Those Riveting Conversations?

You guys all know what I’m talking about: You see two attractive women sitting together at a bar engaged in a passionate and uninterrupted conversation that lasts for 2-1/2 solid hours…and not once do their eyes wander. It’s like there’s a fucking tractor-beam locking their retinas on to one another. They could be sitting there bitching about their inability to find a boyfriend, as 22 naked men with erections stand within 10 feet of them…unnoticed.

And by the way, don’t attempt to interrupt them, unless your self-esteem is made of Teflon.

This modus operandi does not exist with men, unless it’s a deadly-serious conversation involving lots of money, and the client isn’t smiling. Under normal circumstances, men’s eyes are everywhere BUT the conversation…and it’s completely acceptable behavior amongst men, because men know that other men are far more interested in meeting available women than they are in talking about meeting available women.
 
But just try pulling that shit when you’re in the company of a women; friend or otherwise.

This just reaffirms my contention that attractive women don’t have to hunt under any circumstances. As long as they are physically attractive, men will pursue them through bookstores, malls, airports, parks, concerts…and any other place they can find them.

Women, ostensibly, enjoy being at public venues, but based on their behavior, men often wonder why they bother to leave the house.

I had to mention these phenomena as an adjunct to my previous post involving the power of beauty in young women.       

Why Men Go First

   
In my view, the primary reasons women outlive men are 1] because they can date physically repulsive men and get away with it; all without suffering abuse at the hands of their peers - or suffering a loss in social status for that matter - and 2] because women are always afforded the moral high ground…even when your pets start disappearing.

When an attractive woman dates an UNattractive man, the predictable responses are always something like:
 
1] He’s extraordinarily well-endowed. 
2] He’s extraordinarily wealthy.
3] He’s extraordinarily wealthy AND famous.
4] He has a tongue like a python.
5] She has a fetish for slaves.

But what ALL women over the age of, say, 32 will tell you is that what really counts is how a particular man makes them FEEL.

I know this went right over your head, guys, but stay with me. 

Remember, it’s at this age that women start to experience tinges of vulnerability, as their looks begin to show the first signs of aging. And since beauty is their most powerful weapon, the less they have of it the more they need to jockey for the best deal they can get. Women despise this reality – and the men who foist it upon them – but since they are unable to alter male genetics, they begrudgingly accept what is…while you pay the price for the rest of your [shorter] life.
 
You must always grapple first with a woman’s emotions before you get to step two. Women must grapple with a man’s penis, first, before she gets to step two. This is another reason women like less attractive men. They aren’t as driven by their penises as are attractive men, thus they are more likely to focus on what they have, rather than what they could have if they’re able to scribble a phone number on a napkin before you return from the restroom.   
In short, good looking men are, for the most part, pigs. So, it doesn’t surprise men to see pretty women in the company of their less attractive brothers…even if the mental picture of the two of them in bed makes you feel like running your fingernails down a chalkboard.
 
After all, women can get their sexual needs met through female friends who are better attuned to their needs, anyway.
   
Am I making myself perfectly clear? No matter what a man talks about – or attempts by way of subtle manipulation and/or charm – his penis is the driving force behind the journey. Why is this? Because the ONLY way a MAN can acquire the security HE needs is to satisfy his fucking penis, first, and then his ego, emotions, and then whatever else he has lurking inside, second.
      
When an attractive man is dating an UNattractive woman, the predictable responses are always something like:

1] There must be something wrong with that guy. 
2] He must be gay.
3] He had an abnormal childhood.
4] He’s off his meds
5] He has low self-esteem

It has been proven time and time again that men actually lose prestige when they date and/or marry someone unattractive. Look, I don’t make the rules here, though I not exactly innocent when it comes to perpetuating them…like every other guy on the planet.

In short, a woman could sleep with a fucking wildebeest if the damn thing could connect with her complex web of emotional needs.
 
When arguing a point with a woman, she either wins, or you lose…no matter who wins. Why is this? Because women are granted sole custody of all points, moral. They are “less superficial,” in spite of their $3000 Chanel handbags, $12,000 Caroline Herrera dresses and $500 stylist bills.
See, this is men’s fault, because if we weren’t so damn superficial women wouldn’t have to do all this crap.
 
Oh, okay, so if men are just a primeval tribe of superficial idiots…why enable them? One handy reason is so you can manipulate something out of them that they wouldn’t otherwise provide…like money, security, children, etc…

But, of course, I’m not supposed to broach these matters because I don’t want a glass of red wine imbedded in my head. Good reason most men choose not to ask. While women are physically weaker, they always end up winning the wars, because men despise conflict with women; particularly conflict they don’t understand, which they don’t, or have any prospect of winning it, which is always the case.
 
What men say is usually what they mean. And even when they lie, it’s so transparent that translation isn’t an issue. What women say is highly interpretive, so you better know how to skate on thin ice if you want to navigate the labyrinth, unscathed. See, it’s not a results-oriented paradigm. It’s a process. And that’s where men just don’t get it and women earn another 5 years on the planet. Over a period of decades, the amount of emotional baggage men withhold begins to cannibalize them. We just don’t have the wiring to both think and feel - with equal force - at the same time. For women, their feelings are the fuel that propels every aspect of their lives.

And things get much worse as they age. In fact, when combining fading beauty with a string of obliterated fantasies at the hands of attractive younger men, there’s enough emotional baggage to drop a 747. 

Beware of the 38 to 40-something angst. You must respect it. While women are the first to criticize superficiality, they are the most likely to practice it…because it’s what MEN want, and they want men to want them, period…all this while resenting us for valuing it in the first place…even though they are its biggest contributors.
 
So they capitulate to us in this regard, but you pay the price for their indulgences.

I have a few very close girlfriends [my secret weapons in this global conflict], but I must always pay careful attention to everything they say and/or intimate, or risk annihilation. It’s that simple. Men must both pay attention AND pull punches with women to make it through. They’re communicating on multiple levels and you better get a grip on that if you want to win.

So, basically, while we’re primitive, superficial apes, they’re - at best - marginal psychotics with a meandering and tenuous sense of self.    
This is a rough template, and you can see who gets the short end of the stick.

1] Women are emotionally stronger
2] Men are emotionally weaker
3] Women get their emotional needs met through women
4] Men never get their emotional needs met, because emotions and sexuality are often weird bedfellows, and because men are ruled by their penises, the situation can often kill them prematurely.
 
In summary, women thrive on emotional conflict, engagement, vulnerability and a secret weapon they refer to as “intimacy;” a socio-political metaphor for “WMD.”

God help us.
           

Saturday Morning at the Asylum

The news media is a business. Its objective is to sell news. And with the advent of advanced technology, it has the ability to shove it down your throat — whether you like it or not. And there is no question it has had a profound impact on how we see our world.

Nowhere is this more obvious than in the world of relationships and dating.

“Who is this guy, really? And why did he happen to mention the fact that he read ‘American Psycho?’”

“Is the conservative business woman who just passed me her expensive velum card actually a hooker posing as an attorney?”

“And, by the way buddy, don’t bother asking me where I live, because I’m not telling you before I…

1] Run a full background check on you, courtesy of publicdata.com,
2] Google you – in the “advanced search” mode,
3] Interview anyone I can locate who has ever come into contact with you,
4] Drive by your house to see if there’s anything weird about it, like a gargoyle door knocker,
5] And then throw out some psychiatric “bait” I picked up in Cosmo to determine whether or not you see a psychotherapist. If so, what meds you’re on…and whether or not they’re working based on my handy copy of the DSM IV.”

A few items from Today’s news underscore this paranoia:

Violent Burglar Bites Man’s Ear Off 
Texas Triple Murderer Plunges to Death After Standoff 
Missing Indiana Student’s Car Found in River
Accused Uma Thurman Stalker Indicted
Reese Witherspoon Scared for Her Kid’s Safety
Drunken Man Attacks Inflatable Ghost, Pumpkin

[Now you wonder why we start staring at our neighbors like they're going to be the next ones in the headlines for tying 13 chickens to a tree and blowing them to smithereens with an improvised explosive device]. 

Add to all of this the fact that an unprecedented number of us have isolated ourselves from society by working at home, and you have the makings of an assembly line for sociopaths.

Maybe in the end, it’s just a lot easier to marry an insurance salesman, move to suburbia, have a kid, and then blow your brains out.

Now that’s what I call “Love in the Time of Cholera.”