Let me ask you this: have you ever been so completely, unequivocally in love? No, really. I mean, have you ever been just sitting, reading a book and the woman across the street is the one who killed the husband so, you stop reading because you’re shocked by the sheer ridiculousness of it all and you’re looking for your cat-shaped bookmark. It’s at the bottom of the frontmost pocket of your bag but you’re convinced it’s in that little pocket by the top with your rusted Eiffel Tower keychain so you look everywhere except for where it actually is because you’re in denial and you don’t want to admit to yourself that most of the time, you think the things you need are where you know they are, but you don’t actually know. Right, there it is. This book is terrible, why do I keep reading trash like this, I’ve got to read Infinite Jest or some shit like that (except, who reads Infinite Jest, really?). I think a lot about what people say they do versus what they actually do. Sometimes, my cat says he won’t bite me, but then even after I give him a treat he still bites me; I mean I swear the kid is plotting to kill me. Sometimes, you make plans for lunch with a friend two days in advance. Then an hour before you’re about to leave when you’re only half awake and you forgot to make the coffee you love so much as a part of your morning routine, your friend says she actually has too much work to do and going to lunch and hanging out is definitely a bad idea. Sometimes, you tell your friend you’ve known for seven years you’re in love with him and he says he doesn’t feel the same way. Sometimes, you have sex just because you want to, even though you were secretly hoping it could turn into something more… and you get the boot before you even have a chance to put your clothes back on. Literally and figuratively exposed, you try not to cry because you know they’ll never text you back. Does that sound funny to you? Has it happened to you, too? It hurts in my heart (*see: the little tiny hole that’s been created by too many unread texts, first dates-gone-wrong, bad sex, etc.). It sucks to know it’s probably not the last time that any of this will happen. There is, though, a piece of my brain where the treasure chest of happy and good memories are kept that is holding on to an Egyptian cotton single-thread count of hope. My bookmark was where it said it would be. And so, I came to terms with the fact that I truly am, in denial of the true locations of my most prized possessions.