Charlie Brown once said: “Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.”
It’s true. And as many times as I would have swiped the football out from under the pitiful, balding kid, I relate. Is there anything worse than unrequited love? Perhaps food poisoning and income taxes. Perhaps the overwhelming stench of the 4/5 on a weekday. Bloody gums. Shoddy abortions. Wine that has gone sour.
Okay, okay. Enough.
In my mind, the one thing worse is intuiting a connection that was never there. Thinking the there is a spark, willing a romantic subtext beneath dialog, imagining what is not. Maybe it’s worse. Maybe the deflating sadness itself is worse. The build-up collapsing on itself, like the son in Cat’s Cradle, staring at the knotted string on his fingers.
What does it all mean?
No damn cat. No damn cradle.