You’re never really dating, just sharpening knives for your future ex
Youth is an experiment in disappointments. Youth is trusting stupidly in the unwitting hopes it turns out well for you against odds you don’t know or don’t believe.
Maturity is the accumulation of aches, not least among them the knowledge that love sours. All sweet wonderfulness felt prior disappears but not invisibly, because like Newton’s Third Law, any affection once gone turns to hate, and so all that you once trusted in a person will be turned against you.
They love you now; they’ll hate you then. If you agree happily to a sex video while mutually raptured, the hell of their solitary relationship confinement ought to make you fret and worry.
I don’t know how relationships work except by this fantasy, and the fantasy is not sufficient to preserve most, even so.
Maybe that’s fine or proper or necessary. Some small portion can be jettisoned off into bliss, or workable hard work, and the rest of us are excised like pus filled infections to torture one another, mostly, till we find someone else poisonous enough complimentary to be antiseptic to our worst impulses.
It’s OK. I have few motivating impulses, but the natural rest of my own misery is one of them. I’ll make no one happy beyond the temporary, but I’ll help a lot of folk learn their future lessons well.
I’m terrible boyfriend material, and I’m non-existent marriage material, but as future ex, I’m tough to beat.