The urge to merge makes strange bedfellows.

It doesn’t always work out the way it seemed in the heat of passion in the throes of ecstasy in the back seat of the car. Breaking up is hard to do, or so I hear. I could never figure out how to do it, to tell someone you’d prefer not to see her again, ever. So I don’t. It’s just not true. So I let HER do it. She usually does that after an absence of a month or so on my part. Call me chicken-shit; call me indecisive; I call it accurate. No matter how fucked-up a relationship might get, it certainly doesn’t mean that I don’t want to ever see her again. So I do. I try to stay in touch. Same goes with male friends. I don’t burn bridges. I’m connected by sticky fingers to everything I’ve ever touched, mental sticky fingers. It sounds like a candy bar. Thai women frequently chop off all their hair when a relationship ends. I like that, not the hair, but the symbolism. Actually I think the hardest part is dividing the turf, as if you could just go transplant the sod in another lawn, the Astroturf theory of existence. So I don’t, accumulate possessions, that is, for that and other reasons. They end up possessing me.