The day I came home to find that my wife had moved out, taking the dog and some furniture with her, began a period of unparalleled grief. Shock, sorrow, guilt, regret, grief. I've looked at my brother's and my father's corpses and not felt such pain. Working through that brought me some clarity and roesolve.

I've committed myself to three women; all three have chosen to leave. One for another man. Another because she was done playing with me. The third because of her own guilt, and mine. They've tried me on, worn me for a while, and moved on.

I'm tired of being discarded.

I don't want to do that to anyone else, either. No revenge. No woman hating.

I live pretty well as a single. I get lonely, (isn't it lovely that "lonely" contains "one"? lovely/lonely/one) but loneliness suits me. I'm good at loneliness. I'm pretty good at grief, too, but loneliness has panache, a certain tinge of piquancy made more acute because it can be remedied. There is no cure for grief, but being resolutely single maintains that lovely tang of unresolved possibility.