I wonder how many packages like this are sent through the mail everyday. Dozens? Thousands? Millions? Tiny envelopes or large boxes filled with the belongs of someone you used to know. T-shirts, photos, silverware, sex toys, baseball cards. All of the crap forgotten by "him" or "her". The person that now must remain nameless. These random items bouncing around in a cardboard box on it's way to Cleveland or San Francisco or where ever the fuck they moved just so they could get away from you. Here's to hoping that box gets destroyed along the way.

The one true thing about relationships is that they all end. Even when the couple are still together, still "going strong" as they might say with an overly enthusiastic smile. This is usually my cue to excuse myself to go smoke in their bathroom. What they don't know is that their super strong, so called relationship is already over or on it's way to being over. From the second after that first kiss the clock starts ticking. As they toast at their beautiful beachside wedding I'm checking my pocket watch and looking for the nearest exit.

People stay together for either convenience or sex. Usually, the sex. Or maybe it's convenience, how the hell should I know? I mean, finding someone to screw you the way you like it is hard to come by these days. Hot sex equals a keeper. However, one person will never be able to satisfy all of your basic human needs and that's not counting all the selfish wants. Want a two carat diamond ring, there goes the faithfulness. Want a girl who gives good head, there goes your freedom. It's all about the trade. We all know this right from the get-go so we immediately start looking for that lost "something". Everyone is constantly searching for their blow jobs and princess cut diamonds because I'll tell you right now, they ain't with the person you call husband, girlfriend, wife, whatever. Keep looking partner, keep looking. It just ain't there.

Go back to those days when love was pure. Adjusting your seventeen year old body to fit in the backseat of your sweetheart's car. Windows fogged up and the upholstery soaked in missionary sex. The smell of Juicy Fruit, Gap perfume and latex. Those were the days of true love. Nothing to worry about but midterms and your next lay. Maybe she will even let you bend her over next time but only if you win the big game. Doggy style after homecoming. Perhaps even half stoned and in the woods. That my friends, is real love. Oh, the good ol' days.

Then you grow up. And by grow up I mean get a job, an apartment with a real kitchen table and mattress with a bed frame. Not grow up as in gaining any actual maturity. Getting stoned, watching television and drinking beer out of a can still applies to this new, slightly more complex life. The only difference between being a fake adult and a real adult is hot food. If you go to a party and it's all chips, leftover M&Ms from Cristmas and store bought Chex Mix (lazy assholes) then you are at a fake adult party. However, if the party has a spread of expensive sounding cheese, warm hors d'oeuvres or anything taken out of a real oven then you, my friend are at a bonafide grown up party.

So what does this have to do with your failed relationship? Once you hit that point in your life that society calls "adulthood" where you have a few bills and any of the aforementioned furniture or get invited to a party with hot food, then your relationship automatically sucks. Don't sit there and try to defend it. Give in and admit that it sucks. You are not getting rough sex. Hell, she doesn't even think about it anymore, she's trying to plan a fucking cocktail party. His family are candidates for a frontal lobotomy and he needs to study for the CFA. No room for thinking about your relationship in that noggin. All of these things are compilations and complications are a noose waiting for your neck.

Believe it or not this is all coming from a person that used to be a die hard believer in true love. The wrist-cutting, cannot live without you kind of love. Not the kind that happens in the back seat of a Cutlass Supreme (although that wasn't so bad). I'm talking about take your breath away, soul mate shit, blah, blah, blah. But where does that get you? In the back of the line at your local post office during lunch break on an 88 degree day in April. Standing there looking like a dick while fiddling around with an oversized padded envelope stuffed with items that no longer exist. This ghost package will end up costing you your afternoon trip to Starbucks, $7.65 in postage and ten years of your fucking life. As it's thrown in the outgoing bin you can't help but wish that it has a wonderful trip to South Dakota or wherever that asshole ended up.