Heartbreak and Petty Theft

For a year during college, I was in love with a boy who lived in Chicago. (This was the best year of my life, so far.) I was so deeply in love that I remember that year as a blur of dopamine and sex, adrenaline and cuddling and giddy laughter. Every other weekend, for a year, I would get off an Amtrak train in Union Station and hurry into the arms of my waiting lover. We would return to his dorm room and fall into bed.

After he suddenly broke up with me last August, I would still take the train into Chicago on the weekend, and even though I no longer had that promise of warmth and sensation, I would still feel my heart pounding with anticipation as the train pulled into the station. I still hurried off the train, profoundly aroused, even though I knew he wouldn't be there waiting. I knew what I had lost, but my body just couldn't learn.

Just as Pavlov's dogs learned to associate a sound with a meal, conditioning taught my body to associate Union Station with sex. It was too depressing; I had to start taking the bus instead.

The nights were also hard. I was accustomed to talking to him on the phone until I fell asleep. Sleep became as elusive as it had been in my tormented youth. After a year of pleasant dreams, I found myself an insomniac once again.

Now, I live in Chicago, so the Amtrak-back-and-forth is not so much an issue. Also, these days, I don't miss the (admittedly phenomenal) sex as much as I miss having someone to say goodnight to.

I spent another year during college studying in upstate New York. (This was the best thing that ever happened to me, so far.) I was infatuated with a few people during that year, but few turned into anything other than some flirting, in that awkward, roundabout way that makes me cringe retrospectively. The one significant romantic/sexual experience during that year happened with a guy named Rob, a roommate of a friend. We had one very memorable tryst, a month before I left for home.

At some point after I left, I inquired as to Rob's well-being, only to find out that he had stolen my friend's stereo, dropped out of college, and skipped out on the rent.

The moral of these two seemingly unrelated stories? A Chicago boy might break your heart, sure. But a New York boy might steal your stereo.

At least, the ones I'm attracted to might.

On a Scale from 1 to Bitter: AMAZED at my own BAD TASTE
1-800-Bitterness.com Radio: Alkaline Trio - Stupid Kid
1-800-Bitterness.com Reading List: Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis