The Hollywood Treatment

Today, I am picking up all the stuff I've been storing at Patrick's place, because he decided yesterday after a lot of soul searching (i.e. abruptly and on a whim, by e-mail, after considering what would be most melodramatic and thereby impress his clubbing friends) that it's best I not be part of his life any more because I make him anxious and he is a broken man, etc.. And he's right; it's downright oppresive the way I answer the phone when he calls, come over to his apartment when he invites me, and don't kick him out of my relatives' funerals when he decides he wants to come (and to announce he is there as my representative).

It's fairly embarrassing - sort of an Obi Wan/Darth Vader situation, if instead of joining the Sith, Anakin decided to become a whiny goth teen. In other words, the prequel trilogy. Fairly embarrassing.

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"I hope you sit on a tack, I said to Paul. I hope the next time you get a double-decker strawberry ice-cream cone the ice cream part falls off the cone part and lands in Australia."
- Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, Judith Viorst