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This great girl and I broke up recently, and it really got me thinking. Breaking up is the pits. It’s not just the obvious things I’ll miss about her – her pretty face, her open-mindedness, her warmth, her up-for-anything demeanor, the amazing ability to always be two steps ahead of me on our hikes up Griffith Park. But I’ll also miss what I call – the bonus stuff. This girl, Emilie, lives in a fantastic house in the Los Feliz hills overlooking Hollywood and downtown LA. I just realized the other day that I’ll never stand with her on the back porch again and look out over that view. I’ll never joke with her about the seemingly abandoned house next to hers and speculate if it’s actually haunted. The house was always dark and spooky and we had joked that we’d break in there and investigate what was really going on. It would have been totally romantic and definitely an adventure. And now we’ll never do that. This week, Emilie’s church is doing a Thanksgiving pageant — kind of like the Christmas play in “A Charlie Brown Christmas”, complete with costumes and songs and of course a Thanksgiving feast…and now I’ll never know how it turned out. Did she have the turkey and ham or just the turkey, and was it as dry as the turkey we scarfed down at Clifton’s Cafeteria? A question left forever unanswered. Emilie lives a very adventurous life and is going to Patagonia near the edge of the world on the Antarctica border in January — and I’ll never see her pictures from that trip, or hear her stories about the sights she saw, the people she encountered, the nights she lived in South American hotels and camped in the wilderness. Best and worst of all these things, she had just started reading HP Lovecraft — completely without knowing that he’s my favorite fucking author in the whole wide world — and I got so excited when she told me that she had just discovered him and liked his stuff. And now we’ll never get to compare notes and I’ll never get to point her to “The Outsider”, my favorite Lovecraft story of all time.

It just sucks. In case you haven’t figured it out, she broke up with me. Something about religion (she’s religious, I’m not), something about me not being someone she sees starting a relationship with. And honestly, I wasn’t even looking for a relationship. I never look for a relationship. I’m allergic to relationships. But I wanted to see where it was going, and I was having a great time. Some girls want more than that. I guess I’m just not that guy.

When you date someone, you enter into a world that’s not your own. For a time being, whether it’s one night or several weeks or several months, you get to take part in someone else’s life. You get to live in a new house. You get to hear about their daily comings and goings and what they plan for the future, where they want to go, what they dream of — and in many ways, if you’re the kind of person who even gives a little bit of a shit about someone else, those daily happenings and future hopes become your adventures, they become a part of your life. It was almost like I was going to Patagonia. I was going to sing in this cool and kinda kooky Thanksgiving pageant. I was going to spend Christmas in Utah with dozens of awesome family members.

And now I’m not.

Now I’m back to being me. The guy who gyms three times a week. The guy whose idea of a good time is two laps around Burbank Costco. Whose neighbors in the Valley *might* be serial killers, but they most certainly do not live in spooky cool haunted houses. Who’s not going anywhere for Christmas, certainly not to the edge of the world. Fuck, my life is boring. I mean, it’s not and I might be going to Europe in May, but for awhile there, I was living two LA lives and goddammit that was exciting.

Every time I date someone, this happens. The single mom who lived in Panorama City, raising two great kids; who waitressed at night and was a personal assistant to rich people during the day. The Sony Playstation executive who got to review and approve videogames for a living. The girl who moved home to LA to be closer to her parents before they got too old, who loved museums and Tito’s Tacos, and was perfect and so nice in every way, except she was 40 pounds heavier than her Tinder photos. The girl who was a nutritionist in Simi Valley, who had stomach aches every time we ate but refused to talk about it, who taught Zumba in the park, and who hated Keanu Reeves with a passion but still watched John Wick with me. I miss all of them, and I wish they were all still in my life.

This past weekend, I didn’t have dinner with anyone, didn’t hold anyone’s hand, didn’t get dressed up to show off my guns, didn’t clean up my apartment just in case, didn’t tell a pretty girl any stories about how my week was.

I just lived my life. I was me, and all the boredom that that entails.

Next weekend, I’ll probably date someone else, and the cycle will begin again. Where she’ll bring me, no one knows. I’m looking forward to it though. And I’ll probably take her on some wild and zany adventures too, propel her into my awesome world mwah-haha.

But today, I’m sad and that’s ok. That’s dating, I suppose. Without it, our lives are just a bit more boring.