Romance is not about chocolates or red roses or silly cards; romance is about note-taking. It's about finding those secret wishes and funny bones and pummeling deeper into them, wiggling your fingers and operating and making those things real. It's about offering up the last bite of pie, and then dousing it in the remains of the a la mode before you laugh and tell them the airplane is coming in for a landing.
In one of my past lives (read: before B.P.) I received an email from someone I was dating. The message itself was not inportant. What blindsighted me was the usage of the word "lover". As in, it was being used at all. Something about this gave me the ol' stinkeye; this word just sounds so tragic, and while I definitely have an appreciation for Mary Kate Olsen and share a name with one of the more dramatic Brother's Grimm Fairy Tale Princesses, I hardly stew in tragic-ness in my own life.
Except in the case of epic run on sentances.
I remember feeling disappointed, and I couldn't shake it. I tried to ignore the word. The email was perfectly fine if "LOVER" hadn't been glaring at me like a glistening, taut, sebum eruption. That word was the beginning of the end.
I was so grateful for that email. Sometimes all it takes is one thing to tip you off to a potential lifetime of shoulder-jerking annoyances. I was in awe, staring upon this blatantly efficient smoke signal reading "stop wasting time".
Results do not come out of nowhere. This is not random if you are paying attention to patterns. Because patterns are logical and manifest into a predictable result, you are gloriously responsible for your life no matter what "randomness" (eh, predetermined orchestrated mishmash of schtuff) is thrown at you. Details point the direction of endings. Keep your eyes open. Watch that airplane make a landing.