unrhymed anniverse

Anyone who knows me at all could tell you that the idea of being in a romantic relationship with me is enough to cause one's very heart, brain, liver, or other organ of choice to shrivel into a raisin and die on a sidewalk somewhere. Cases in point include every relationship I've ever had (mostly thrown into catastrophic ruination by yours truly); every non-relationship I've ever had (mostly with douchebags and inhabitant-developers of Ass Way or the Ass Way Marketplace); every date I've gone on ("Has anyone ever told you you're terrible with men?"); and most friendly acquaintances ("You could be so happy if you'd just be... nicer! And not wear sneakers! And... do something with yourself!").

Which makes it all the more unbelievable that The Bay, much-wronged hero, San Francisco native, Young Person, Artist of Film, has apparently completed one year of (almost) unscathed horrible, heart-shriveling misery in the company of yours truly. How The Bay has endured twelve months of such agony, I simply cannot say. This morning while I was trying to sleep he got up and danced/sang a simultaneously terrifying and confusing version of C+C Music Factory's "Everybody Dance Now" -- which was playing approximately nowhere -- before collecting two enormous water bottles out of the refrigerator, putting on the same clothes he has been wearing for two? three? four? days now (some things never change), clambering undecorously onto the bed (my arm shrieked with fear, as The Bay has a propensity to merrily fling himself upon it by accident), declaring himself happy, and departing for work. If that's not an unscathed individual, I don't know what is. I'd love to know his secret.

Yesterday we went on a small, aimless trip in the car, which mostly resulted in a lot of really greasy, delicious food, a lot of really gray, cold weather, bookstores, licorice eaten in the car, over one thousand annoying songs performed by The Bay despite a supposed Song Moratorium (twelve minutes into the Moratorium, actual selections from Aladdin were performed), and finally, after coming back to San Francisco because my dress was too small for the weather (and, let's be frank, for the monument-sized load that constitutes my unappealing corpus), Crohn's-prohibited dessert for dinner.

I don't understand why I was allowed to benefit so handsomely from The Bay's lucky break at having survived an entire torturous year in my presence, but somehow, I was. Both my arm and I declared it The Best Day Ever, though we (my arm in particular, which by night had turned black from the exertions of the day) had done nothing to deserve it. This morning after The Bay went to work my arm and I -- we have become constant companions, you see -- had a serious conversation about it. We decided that maybe we just got lucky. I think we got pretty lucky indeed.