The Way Love Is Supposed To Be, a very, very short story

I wanted to run upon the moors with tears streaming down my face.

She treated him as if he were a rajah, wearing a satin robe and slippers.

Don’t ever marry an accountant.

You’ll laugh, but I cried.

Her radar had failed her over and over again.

Men were tricky.

She danced the samba, then the tango, in the arms of a smelly Russian with piercing blue eyes who fancied himself a ladies’ man.

I would never marry someone who ogles women right in front of me. At least, not until I’ve started ogling them, too.

My Mama loved mohair; I loved angora. We were opposites.

Move your ass and don’t take a year.

I felt at sea for most of my thirties. The forties couldn’t be any worse, I thought. Wrong, wrong, and wrong!

I plodded, envying the agility of those around me with obviously higher serotonin levels. When I studied those brain chemicals in college, I didn’t know they’d turn out to be so important.

Redial that oily odor; a ray of water consoles the jilted; all beds of roses rot eventually; be brave and rest; the noose leads to the abyss; don’t gouge the luge, egad! Lazy seared meat; too addled to ladle. Baba rhum; Joanne Arel/Aral; raison d’etre; brave agar; the smell of water; conic Eros; seed the boo-boo, Sergeant. I came, I saw, I conquered; day-O, me say day-ay-ay-O; I say, Merv, that canary sure can sing!

Canary Conn? Transsexual on Merv Griffin. Breathtakingly beautiful, not a man in drag.

At this rate, we’ll never get there. Or perhaps, we are already there and are too stupid to know it! Dogs vs. cats… different, not better or worse. Different is GOOD.

No one’s a fool.  At least, not forever.