arnaudloumeau

[match-your-steps]

if you're gonna have a weird unnecessary harem situation at least have some variety in there. like it can't all be jealous girls put some jealous guys in there too

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #236

“so i asked you once, and i ask you again: where do your roots start, and where do your roots end?”

Do you wear a ring on your finger? Yeah, a Supernatural reference best friend one. Do you listen to your friends’ advice when they give it to you? I mean, it depends on the kind of advice and the seriousness of the issue. I'd say in most cases, yes. What’re you listening to right now? "Angel Eyes" by New Years Day ft. Chris Motionless. Have you ever thought about getting your nose pierced? It has been, twice. I don't think I'll do it again because my glasses are just in the way and they come out and get lost too easily. Is your last ex still someone you care about and do you still have romantic feelings for your ex? Yes to both. My feelings towards her haven't changed at all, we just made a heavily-discussed, hard, but wise decision for the time being. Are you someone’s best friend? Sara. What’s the biggest annoyance in your life right now? Annoyance, ummm... oh, easy. Being poor as dirt. That's only slightly under my skin, y'know? Have you spoken to your mother today? Yeah, I live with her. When was the last time you cried and why? PTSD. It's started to become relevant again, jOY to THe WOrlD!!!!!1!!!1!!!!! Is there someone who makes you instantly smile when you receive a message from them? I mean I don't always smile, but I consistently do get excited. If someone loved you right now, would you want them to tell you? *confused screaming* Do you like to cuddle? If I'm seriously romantically into you, yes. Is any part of you sad at all? I think that's always going to be a thing for me, somewhere down in there. Do you like seafood? Only shrimp, and even that I don't like in some forms. Do you have any of your exes as friends on Facebook? Yeah. Does more than one person like you? Idk. Do you ever worry that people might be talking about you behind your back? Always. Fuck, I think Sara's the only person I can count on to never. Do you call your partner ‘baby’? I hated it and never used it 'til Sara. I eventually did, and somehow, it felt okay and not disrespectful??? Idk if I'll use it again. What's the most boring guy’s name out there? Like, "Bob" or something. Do you know how to play Mahjong? Nope. Ever had a promise ring? No. What’s the biggest turn off in the opposite sex? Send me a dick pic and I will actually KICK you in the dick. Fun fact, even though I'm still bi, visually, penises gross me the fuck out and so I'd rather see someone's as little as possible, m'kay? Doing that is like a surefire way for me to decide "oh no bye boy." How often do you catch yourself daydreaming? A whole lot. This time last year, were you single? No. Who is someone you’ll always hate? The doctor that put me on a medication that put around 100 pounds on me and blamed it aaaaaall on me. :^) Do you know anyone with the same name as you? Yeah, just spelled differently. Who knows your biggest secret(s)? Sara. Do you ever read the threads on r/AskReddit? No. Are you currently stressed out about anything? You have no fucking idea. What’s your Instagram @? brittanymphotography or eldritch_obscura, depending on what kind of photography you're into. Don't have a personal one. Have you ever smoked a cigarette? No. Are you in love with anyone at the moment? It's so complicated. I think, but I also question the "in" love part. That and just "loving" are different to me. I want her, I want Jason, and here I am strictly monogamous. I barely understand what I feel romantically rn. If a friend called you to help hide a body, would you help or turn them in? UM fuck that I'm calling the cops. Have you ever had a crush on someone that, now as you look back, is completely embarrassing? Not really. How would you react if a friend started dating your ex? When "ex" is used singularly, I always assume you want The Ex. So, regardless of friend, that'd feel weird, but with certain people/levels of friendship, less so than others. If you were in an emergency, which friend would you call first? So not family? Uhhh, I don't know. It depends on the kind of emergency. Ever kissed someone who wasn’t single? No. Other than that "someone who wasn't single" being my partner. Are you single? if no who are you dating and for how long? Not right now, no. What kind of music do you listen to? Tons of different forms of metal, rock, indie, and I'm even into some electro stuff now. Do you have any YouTube videos of yourself? Thank the merciful lord, not anymore. What’s your fave YouTube video? BIIIIIIIIIHHHHHHHHHH the one featuring Dark in A Heist With Markiplier. I am not exaggerating my love of White Suit Dark. Use three words that best describe your best friend: Passionate, loyal, and resilient as a motherfucker. Now use three that best describe you: Also passionate, empathetic, and caring. List three things that describe your crush/love: Look I love someone but am also preoccupied with the idea of Jason coming back to me. It's not a "crush," it's being in love with a memory. I don't have a clue how to answer this rn. Is there someone in the family that no one really talks to? As far as extended family goes, yeah. Have you ever been romantically interested in a coworker? N/A What is the game you’re currently playing most often on your phone? None; I have no games on it because my phone has incredibly small memory. Same. Are you close to someone who is mentally unwell? Well, define "unwell." I have a load of friends and family with mental disorders, but calling them "mentally unwell" seems too severe. Do you have an opinion on adopting/purchasing a pet? Adopt, dude. There are so, SO many cats and dogs and I'm sure more that need a home, but you'd rather pay hundreds for a dog with likely some sort of health problem from extreme breeding than adopt an animal for a far cheaper price that ALREADY needs a family? Come on, now. Have you ever read any of your idols’ books/autobiographies? I read Ozzy's autobiography. Do you know anyone who is freaked out by cats? ???????????? no????????????? What name would you pick for yourself? Probably "Zoey." Do you enjoy going to live shows? Do concerts count? 'Cuz yeah. Who do you spend the most time with? My mom, I guess? She's the only one I live with, but she's like, never home because she works more than she breathes. What color do you wish your hair was? Natural hair, blonde. So much easier to dye, jc. Does any of the jewelry you wear have sentimental significance? The ring mentioned earlier, as well as the bracelet Sara also gave me. Who is your favorite drummer? Eh, no op Do you find musicians attractive? This is a dumb question... It depends on the musician??? If you could get any piercing, what would it be? I want a microdermal below/near the outer corner of my eye NOW. But I have glasses so it would totally ruin the purpose, ugh. Do you scream, yell, jump around and dance at shows or do you stand still? Just cheer, really. I wouldn't call it "screaming." I guess I can yell, too? Have you ever lost your voice from screaming so much? "No. I’ve had a sore throat." <<<< This. What’s your favorite color on the person you have feelings for? Both Sara and Jason, as well as like anyone, I love wearing black. Actually, Sara is super cute in light colors, like baby pink. Ugh talking about them at the same time feels fuckin weird. Who’s your favorite horror monster/killer? Alright, let's just say like, the "traditional" guys. I suppose Jason? His silence, totally casual pursuit, and mask creep me out, man. What kind of music do you prefer to listen to when driving? When I myself am driving, I don't want music on. I can't concentrate. Are you willing to board airplanes? I've gone up to see Sara like... three times within two years, I think? They don't scare me too much. I don't like takeoff, though. Too rocky and dizzying. Do looks really matter to you when it comes to friendship? ??????????? what?????????? the fuck??????????????? Do you accept friend requests from people you don’t know? Nope. I have to not only know you, but care more about you than like the average acquaintance of whatever. What is one of your best talents? Writing, I guess? Are/were you a rebellious youth or angsty teen? ha ha oh BOY Do you put your change in a jar for savings? No. How do you feel about transvestites? BITCH y'all great. I love you. Fuckin ROCK YA SHIT. Do you know anyone with a land line at their house? Yes, actually. Do you have any guilty pleasures? Certain kinds of daydreams. Have you been in a fist fight with someone you didn’t want to fight? I've never had a physical fight. Has anyone ever convinced you to do something you didn’t want to? Sure. Usually for my own benefit/growth, though. Are you a sensitive person? Yeah, quite a bit. Do you enjoy writing? Yep. Are you a germ-o-phobe? YEAH. Would you ever own a hairless rat, cat or dog? I would TOTALLY have a sphynx. There's this one breed of dog too and is furless on most places but does have some furry areas and are so ugly they're cute, and I once almost did adopt a hairless rat. So there's your answer. Do you prefer big, fluffy towels or normal sized/smaller towels? BIG FLUFF What is the image on your beach towel? Don't have one of those. Are you good with making eye contact? NO. I never know how long to maintain it and overthink it HEAVILY. I avoid it most of the time. What is your favorite book that was turned into a movie? Probably The Outsiders. I thought it did the book great justice. Do you like the movie or the book better? I don't remember either well enough. Do you watch porn? No. I don't want to watch some strangers bang each other. It's in no way arousing to me. What’s your favorite flavor of applesauce, if any? I guess just normal? Do you go to a firework show every 4th of July? Nah. Are you diabetic? No. Are you allergic to gluten? No. I don't think I'd survive. Are you lactose intolerant? No. Do you live with your parents? Just my mom. Parents are divorced and Mom had full custody, and my two sisters are proper adults that can survive without their mommy. :^) How much experience do you have written down on your resume, approximately? NOT A LOT!!!!!!!! I only count like, one damn job that was valid/lasted a couple months, but only because I very rarely worked. I also only include my previous online college, and should I create a resume now, obviously the one I currently attend. What’s your favorite song to dance to? I do not dance, my friend. What do you think of your parents? Both of them are great. Mom is the reason I'm (in the big picture) healthy, even alive. I WOULD be dead, died a long time ago, if it was not for that woman. Saved my life again and again and again, been there for me through both the same old shit and new madness. I'mma stop here before I actually cry just thinking about how thankful I am for her. Dad, too, I love, and I aspire to be as positive as he seems nowadays. His loyalty to my sisters and me, especially after the shit I've said, is incredible. He doesn't take a lot too seriously, and that's nice, especially when you're having a hard time. He's an optimistic guy now that always makes an effort to cheer you up. He's a total goof, too. He's just fun to be around. What do you think makes you attractive to other people? HA, fuck if I know. I guess my vertical lip labret stands out? Everyone I've dated since having it has at some point pointed out that that's like, my trademark that makes me recognizable right off the bat and that it looks good on me. One of the few things I even like on myself. Would more money make you happier? Look me right in the fucking eye and answer "no" to this. What is one of your favorite memories as a child? Watching my older sister play demo discs' video games after waking up. It's something so simple, but idk, I love remembering that. What’s your favorite kind of cake? Probably red velvet, like gd that shit good. Who is your favorite sports team? Idc. Like I have a natural fondness towards the Carolina Hurricanes 'cuz they're Dad's favorite and we've gone to some games together, but I really don't care. Who would you like to get to know better? I have this high school acquaintance named Courtlynn on my Facebook that seems so cool and relatable. She seems to like me too (not romantically, but she's really supportive, hearts like everything, comments the sweetest stuff sometimes, all that), I just think both of us are shy to reach out. What is the strangest food you ever ate? "I don’t eat anything I consider strange. I’m so picky and basic." <<<< Big 'ole fat same. What’s your favorite thing to order at a Chinese food restaurant? I exclusively only eat pork fried rice and/or egg rolls. Are you an organ donor? YES!!!!!!!!!! PLEASE BE ONE!!!!!!!!!! YOU DON'T NEED THEM ONCE UR DEAD!!!!!!!!!!!! THE LIVING DO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SAVE SOME LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What’s your favorite candle scent? FRESH BAKED BREAD MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM What would you do if you found an abandoned animal? Check for identification and call if a number is given, offer it food and water, put a notification up on Facebook about a lost pet... all that stuff. We'd try to avoid a shelter, probably, because yeah. Euthanization is a thing. Have you ever kissed someone who had a tongue piercing? I am the one with the tongue piercing lmao. No. Is it easy for someone to make you cry? OH YES, QUITE. How many children can you see yourself having? IF I had kids, IF, I could not possibly imagine myself with more than two. What is your favorite PlayStation 1 game? SILENT HILL FUCK MAN I LOVE THAT SHIT. Are you competitive? Not really. Depends. Black and white or colored photos? It very much depends. Composition, lighting, content, all that contributes to what I find more aesthetically pleasing. Do you prefer to date younger, older, or the same age as you? Preferably around my age. What’s something from the past that you don’t miss at all? Being a depressed mess every waking moment of my life. Do you like ice cream cake? Not really. Do you wash your hair every day? No, every day is bad for your hair. Do you have trouble sticking to promises? Definitely not. I'm good at that. Have you ever made out with someone of the same sex? Very briefly. She thought she was ready, but not quite. What kind of headphones do you have? Right now they're literally just flimsy hot pink earplugs from a dollar store lmao. How often do you go to parties? Never. Do you sleep in awkward positions? I don't think so. Do you experiment a lot with new looks on yourself? Not really. Where is your favorite place to be kissed? Don't touch my tits with, like, anything. Do you ever quote your favorite movie in normal conversations? No? Do people ever tell you that you look stoned when you’re not? No. Do you suffer from anxiety or depression? *shrugs* why not both? Do hospitals freak you out? To a degree. Been there enough times to both get semi-used to it, but it also agitates old wounds and makes me antsy to get out. What about cemeteries at night? I've never experienced this, so I can't say. But the idea doesn't really creep me out, no. What is your favorite Nintendo 64 game? I never had one. Were you mean as a little kid? Nah, I was a good kid actually.

[chapterxxv]

How to Know if You Should Spend Forever Together

A love story

By Heather Havrilesky

Romance is an act of imagination, fueled by fear. My perfect future husband and I don’t know that yet, as we begin planning our first trip to Europe, scrutinizing blurry photos of hotel rooms in Le Marais and San Sebastián to discern if they’re the suitable mix of sophisticated and scrappy, skimming menus and considering attractions, packing ordinary clothes for these extraordinary places. We have faith that we will become extraordinary on the beaches at Biarritz. We are certain that, in the gorgeous corridors of Barcelona, his eyes will sparkle, my hair will form a luxurious, fluffy frame around my sun-dappled face. As we plan for romance, we are sure that romance will elevate us to a higher level of consciousness and gorgeousness and confidence. We are in love, after all. We have found our person. This is the start of a whole new life. All former selves — intractable, lumpy, ungrateful, repetitive, needy — will be left behind.

But our former selves disagree. They are packing their bags for their first trip to Europe, too. They know they have the power to ruin everything. Imagine, how romantic it will be, to destroy a very good thing — the best one yet, by far! Our former selves snicker behind their hands as they pack. They cannot wait.

Some might say the romance of this romantic trip began the morning we left for Paris. As we waited for our cab outside my perfect future husband’s apartment, I felt a leaf in my hair and tried to pull it out, only to find a crushed, furry bee between my fingers.

Others might argue that, as the plane tilted and rumbled across the Atlantic and my wrist swelled to the size of a prune, that was when the real romance began.

Others, though, would zoom in on that first night in the closet-sized Parisian hotel room with the slanted stairs and slanted floors, the room spinning from what I would in retrospect properly label as vertigo, my mind flooding with the dreadful realization that every corner of Paris does not smell like the pages of glossy lady magazines. The romance, they would argue, sprang to life the moment I became aware that when you walk the streets of Paris for the very first time, you do not always feel like a great glowing god, optimistic and invincible.

In fact, it is possible to feel queasy and ugly and stupid on the streets of Paris. It is possible to find the corner cafe too crowded and smoky, to encounter the tiny brasseries and flower stands as cartoonish imitations of a France that might’ve vanished decades ago. It is possible to find the French themselves a teensy bit too French. Not only that, but it is possible to reach into one’s brain for a single sentence from six years of French in junior high and high school and college, and discover an utter void. And after fumbling for words and mumbling something in English like a common tourist who has never been to Paris even once, after the waiter rolls his eyes and theatrically turns on his heel, revealing himself to be a bad imitation of a breed of French waiter that might’ve died off around the time Hemingway last set foot on the continent, after looking down at an idiotic crepe — we might as well be at Universal Studios Hollywood! — after all of that, I looked to my perfect, handsome, smart, amazing future husband for comfort and reassurance, and saw that he was a little bit … moist. He was looking back with worried eyes, wondering if, like Paris itself, he was a big letdown. And in that exceptionally frightening and thus deeply romantic moment, it was suddenly possible to find this handsome, smart, amazing future husband … disappointing.

What’s more disappointing? The fact that he actually cares what you’re feeling, which for some crazy reason makes you angry and self-conscious, or the fact that he doesn’t bluster his way through his nonexistent French so much as cringe and cower visibly? This is what all of your former selves are debating in delighted tones as you take the fast train from Paris to Biarritz, your head spinning and your bee sting, now the size of a plum, throbbing. This is not how your arrogant father behaved when he was traveling, your former selves remind you. Your dad dove in and blustered his way through it all, and you felt safe and secure (if sometimes slightly embarrassed). Your future husband has no bluster. His fears amplify your fears.

“But what do you want?” Your former selves hiss in your ear as the landscape whizzes by and your future husband smiles nervously in your direction. “Do you seriously want a daddy? You’re so pathetic that you can’t travel to Europe for the first time without wanting your future husband to imitate your actual dead father?”

This moment, as the train pulls into Biarritz and your self-hatred starts to upstage your hatred of your amazing future husband, might just be the starting point of the real, true romance. The rain lets up enough for the two of you to find a table by the ocean, and as you sit there, you notice that you are surrounded by a wide range of bored international types with money, families with adult children, all of them with the same triple-processed hair carrying the same Gucci and Hermès bags, all of them trussed up in tight jeans and blousy blouses. You might as well be at The Grove in Los Angeles. You might as well be in Miami or New Jersey or Pleasanton, California.

This is not the real France, the real Europe. You arrived a decade too late — maybe two or three decades too late. You could’ve come as a student and stayed in hostels and gotten drunk on red wine with greasy delicious strangers, but instead you are dragging along with you a disappointing middle-age dope like an unwieldy, oversized suitcase without wheels. He has nothing to say, you can see that now. He tries to make up for it by reading street signs out loud in a cheerful voice, like some kind of confused half-wit. He is awkward and he is wearing — is that a golf shirt?

Here is where the roller coaster starts climbing the really steep hill that will almost certainly bring your death. At this moment when you recognize for the first time that you are wasting a literal fortune just to lug an oversized man-shaped bag through a long-ago-destroyed, overpriced tourist wasteland, as your pulse races and you realize that this misshapen, pointless, charmless mountain of wincing leather will soon propose marriage to you, of all things, that’s when you know in your heart that all lives peter out early and become miserable descents into old age and disappointment. Heterosexual women like yourself only pair up with a man because they know they’re going to be miserable anyway, so they might as well have a guy around to carry things and fetch the car and speed them through customs.

Why a man, though? Your former selves whisper as your oversized luggage orders a second lukewarm beer. Why spend the rest of your life with a man, of all things? Men, you now see clearly, are tedious beasts with nothing to offer and nothing to add. Why not bring your closest female friends to Europe? There’s nothing you’d like better than to have your girlfriends here instead, drinking and snickering with you over the bad waiter. Why do you and your lady friends isolate yourselves into miserable pairs instead? Why not marry your friends? Why not marry a nice dog or a gentle horse? Marrying a man is like ordering an imitation crepe in an imitation of a cafe in an imitation of Paris. Why marry an inadequate replica? You will merely seal yourself into a wax museum of your own creation.

One might presume that the point when you began to write off all monogamous heterosexual human relations from a few centuries back forward to the present moment could mark the apex of the romance in this heady story of romance! One could be forgiven for presuming this. Because as you trudged through the streets of San Sebastián, flanked by soccer — yes, football! — fans pissing on the cobblestone streets, as you boarded an overnight train to Barcelona, your head knocking into the side of the train car for hours, as you finally entered those narrow old streets, sleep-deprived, your vertigo kicking up again, you issued a deeply romantic warning to your future husband.

“I know you’re probably planning to propose on this trip,” you recall yourself saying. “Don’t speak, just listen very closely: Don’t propose when I’m tired and dizzy, like I am today. I’m PMSing right now, just so you know, so don’t propose while I’m still PMSing. Make sure I’m at least showered. And don’t buy me some bubble gum machine ring. I want a real engagement ring. That will take time for you to pick out. So don’t propose anytime soon. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Your big stumbly non-rolling bag looked at you, disappointed. Handle everything, is what you meant, with confidence, with arrogant self-assurance, with swagger, even. But do it later. Much, much later.

“OK. I hear you.” That’s all he said, because he has literally nothing to say, ever, like all men.

Maybe I was buying myself some time. Maybe I knew by then that our former selves had stowed away on the plane with us, and I didn’t want his self-doubting former self proposing to my hormonal, ugly, resentful former self. I didn’t want him to ask me to marry him with a question mark in his voice, asking not just “Will you marry me?” but also, “Is this a stupid idea?” and “Am I good enough for you?” and “Are you good enough for me, or are you actually completely terrible?”

I wanted him to be sure, because I wasn’t. I wasn’t sure if I was good enough for him or for myself or for marriage. I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend forever with anyone, least of all myself. But I was very, very sure, at that particular moment on our trip, that nothing would ever make me happy. I was sure that I would drag him down into hell with me.

I wasn’t wrong about that. Because when we arrived at our hotel north of Valencia, we finally broke into a giant fight — about how tedious and repugnant he insisted on being, maybe, or about choosing the wrong hotel or about something even smaller, who knows? (You can fight with an overpacked bag about anything under the sun, trust me). And I yelled at my perfect future husband. I yelled at him in my bad sleep shorts, with my tangled, ugly hair on my hideous head, and as I yelled I thought, “This will release me from this purgatorial entanglement! I’m free! I am disgusting and I deserve to be alone forever!” My future husband stormed out. Success!

He returned a half-hour later. He sat next to me on the bed, where I was reading. He was apologetic, which was helpful and yet also unattractive. Then he spoke. “There was a jewelry festival of some kind downstairs — ” and he started to reach into his pocket.

This time I didn’t just yell. “NO!” I shrieked. “I told you I didn’t want this!” I wailed like someone about to jump off a cruise ship and drown in the salty terrible sea. I screeched like a woman smothering all of her former selves under an avalanche of self-loathing. I howled like a woman murdering the best thing that had ever happened to her, ruining the absolute best relationship with the kindest, most patient, most defensive, most exasperating, most handsome, most hideous man she had ever met. I bellowed and sobbed and snotted into my pillow, in my bad sleep shorts, in my bad hair, and my future husband yelled back, telling me I was terrible, finally admitting that I was awful, awful and unlovable, things I knew all along but wanted to hear out loud, and in English.

My disappointing future husband sat in the bathroom of our disappointing hotel room on a disappointing stretch of Spanish coastline for about 20 minutes. Then he came out. He did not show me the (probably disappointingly bad) ring he’d bought. We talked in ragged tones about what was happening to us. I cried. He sulked. We talked some more. We cuddled ambivalently on the uncomfortable mattress of the bad bed in the bad room, hating ourselves and each other, hating Spain and Europe and the whole planet and the inky black void beyond it.

The next morning, we drove down the coast, sunshine streaming in the windows of our tiny rental car, over empty, winding roads. “The south of Spain!” a voice inside my head gushed. We stopped at a place called the Auto Grill. Among the bad pieces of pizza and wilted-looking salads, I found a sandwich made of fresh bread (finally!), manchego and jamon iberico wrapped in paper. My future husband found some very good olives and another sandwich with other cured meats involved, and we ate our sandwiches in the front seat of our tiny rental car in the parking lot, and we didn’t talk much.

All of us were there, our former selves and our current selves. We were excited and melancholy and needy and pissy and impatient and satisfied. And thatwas the most romantic moment of this very romantic story. Because as we sat and chewed, we realized that love had not transformed us into great, glowing gods, optimistic and invincible. Instead, all of our former and current selves would be packed into that tiny car like temperamental clowns, and our agony wouldn’t end when our trip was over. We were in for a rough ride that would last a lifetime, or even longer. Maybe we would even be jammed together like sardines in the afterlife. Anything was possible.

We ate our cured meats in silence and every now and then, we looked into each other’s eyes and we didn’t look away quickly. Because we knew that it was possible to be disgusted and annoyed and bored and still feel love — pounding, elated, passionate. In that moment, we were disheveled and ordinary, and also gorgeous and extraordinary. We belonged together. We were terrified, but we were sure.

[difficultdivine]

How to Know if You Should Spend Forever Together: A love story.

By Heather Havrilesky

Sept. 29, 2018

Romance is an act of imagination, fueled by fear. My perfect future husband and I don’t know that yet, as we begin planning our first trip to Europe, scrutinizing blurry photos of hotel rooms in Le Marais and San Sebastián to discern if they’re the suitable mix of sophisticated and scrappy, skimming menus and considering attractions, packing ordinary clothes for these extraordinary places. We have faith that we will become extraordinary on the beaches at Biarritz. We are certain that, in the gorgeous corridors of Barcelona, his eyes will sparkle, my hair will form a luxurious, fluffy frame around my sun-dappled face. As we plan for romance, we are sure that romance will elevate us to a higher level of consciousness and gorgeousness and confidence. We are in love, after all. We have found our person. This is the start of a whole new life. All former selves — intractable, lumpy, ungrateful, repetitive, needy — will be left behind.

But our former selves disagree. They are packing their bags for their first trip to Europe, too. They know they have the power to ruin everything. Imagine, how romantic it will be, to destroy a very good thing — the best one yet, by far! Our former selves snicker behind their hands as they pack. They cannot wait.

¸.•*¨*•.¸♥¸.•*¨*•.¸♪¸.•*¨*•.¸

Some might say the romance of this romantic trip began the morning we left for Paris. As we waited for our cab outside my perfect future husband’s apartment, I felt a leaf in my hair and tried to pull it out, only to find a crushed, furry bee between my fingers.

Others might argue that, as the plane tilted and rumbled across the Atlantic and my wrist swelled to the size of a prune, that was when the real romance began.

Others, though, would zoom in on that first night in the closet-sized Parisian hotel room with the slanted stairs and slanted floors, the room spinning from what I would in retrospect properly label as vertigo, my mind flooding with the dreadful realization that every corner of Paris does not smell like the pages of glossy lady magazines. The romance, they would argue, sprang to life the moment I became aware that when you walk the streets of Paris for the very first time, you do not always feel like a great glowing god, optimistic and invincible.

In fact, it is possible to feel queasy and ugly and stupid on the streets of Paris. It is possible to find the corner cafe too crowded and smoky, to encounter the tiny brasseries and flower stands as cartoonish imitations of a France that might’ve vanished decades ago. It is possible to find the French themselves a teensy bit too French. Not only that, but it is possible to reach into one’s brain for a single sentence from six years of French in junior high and high school and college, and discover an utter void. And after fumbling for words and mumbling something in English like a common tourist who has never been to Paris even once, after the waiter rolls his eyes and theatrically turns on his heel, revealing himself to be a bad imitation of a breed of French waiter that might’ve died off around the time Hemingway last set foot on the continent, after looking down at an idiotic crepe — we might as well be at Universal Studios Hollywood! — after all of that, I looked to my perfect, handsome, smart, amazing future husband for comfort and reassurance, and saw that he was a little bit … moist. He was looking back with worried eyes, wondering if, like Paris itself, he was a big letdown. And in that exceptionally frightening and thus deeply romantic moment, it was suddenly possible to find this handsome, smart, amazing future husband … disappointing.

♪♫•*¨*•.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*•♫♪

What’s more disappointing? The fact that he actually cares what you’re feeling, which for some crazy reason makes you angry and self-conscious, or the fact that he doesn’t bluster his way through his nonexistent French so much as cringe and cower visibly? This is what all of your former selves are debating in delighted tones as you take the fast train from Paris to Biarritz, your head spinning and your bee sting, now the size of a plum, throbbing. This is not how your arrogant father behaved when he was traveling, your former selves remind you. Your dad dove in and blustered his way through it all, and you felt safe and secure (if sometimes slightly embarrassed). Your future husband has no bluster. His fears amplify your fears.

“But what do you want?” Your former selves hiss in your ear as the landscape whizzes by and your future husband smiles nervously in your direction. “Do you seriously want a daddy? You’re so pathetic that you can’t travel to Europe for the first time without wanting your future husband to imitate your actual dead father?”

This moment, as the train pulls into Biarritz and your self-hatred starts to upstage your hatred of your amazing future husband, might just be the starting point of the real, true romance. The rain lets up enough for the two of you to find a table by the ocean, and as you sit there, you notice that you are surrounded by a wide range of bored international types with money, families with adult children, all of them with the same triple-processed hair carrying the same Gucci and Hermès bags, all of them trussed up in tight jeans and blousy blouses. You might as well be at The Grove in Los Angeles. You might as well be in Miami or New Jersey or Pleasanton, Calif.

This is not the real France, the real Europe. You arrived a decade too late — maybe two or three decades too late. You could’ve come as a student and stayed in hostels and gotten drunk on red wine with greasy delicious strangers, but instead you are dragging along with you a disappointing middle-aged dope like an unwieldy, oversized suitcase without wheels. He has nothing to say, you can see that now. He tries to make up for it by reading street signs out loud in a cheerful voice, like some kind of confused half-wit. He is awkward and he is wearing — is that a golf shirt?

Here is where the roller coaster starts climbing the really steep hill that will almost certainly bring your death. At this moment when you recognize for the first time that you are wasting a literal fortune just to lug an oversized man-shaped bag through a long-ago-destroyed, overpriced tourist wasteland, as your pulse races and you realize that this misshapen, pointless, charmless mountain of wincing leather will soon propose marriage to you, of all things, that’s when you know in your heart that all lives peter out early and become miserable descents into old age and disappointment. Heterosexual women like yourself only pair up with a man because they know they’re going to be miserable anyway, so they might as well have a guy around to carry things and fetch the car and speed them through customs.

Why a man, though? Your former selves whisper as your oversized luggage orders a second lukewarm beer. Why spend the rest of your life with a man, of all things? Men, you now see clearly, are tedious beasts with nothing to offer and nothing to add. Why not bring your closest female friends to Europe? There’s nothing you’d like better than to have your girlfriends here instead, drinking and snickering with you over the bad waiter. Why do you and your lady friends isolate yourselves into miserable pairs instead? Why not marry your friends? Why not marry a nice dog or a gentle horse? Marrying a man is like ordering an imitation crepe in an imitation of a cafe in an imitation of Paris. Why marry an inadequate replica? You will merely seal yourself into a wax museum of your own creation.

One might presume that the point when you began to write off all monogamous heterosexual human relations from a few centuries back forward to the present moment could mark the apex of the romance in this heady story of romance! One could be forgiven for presuming this. Because as you trudged through the streets of San Sebastián, flanked by soccer — yes, football! — fans pissing on the cobblestone streets, as you boarded an overnight train to Barcelona, your head knocking into the side of the train car for hours, as you finally entered those narrow old streets, sleep-deprived, your vertigo kicking up again, you issued a deeply romantic warning to your future husband.

“I know you’re probably planning to propose on this trip,” you recall yourself saying. “Don’t speak, just listen very closely: Don’t propose when I’m tired and dizzy, like I am today. I’m PMSing right now, just so you know, so don’t propose while I’m still PMSing. Make sure I’m at least showered. And don’t buy me some bubble gum machine ring. I want a real engagement ring. That will take time for you to pick out. So don’t propose anytime soon. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Your big stumbly non-rolling bag looked at you, disappointed. Handle everything, is what you meant, with confidence, with arrogant self-assurance, with swagger, even. But do it later. Much, much later.

“OK. I hear you.” That’s all he said, because he has literally nothing to say, ever, like all men.

Maybe I was buying myself some time. Maybe I knew by then that our former selves had stowed away on the plane with us, and I didn’t want his self-doubting former self proposing to my hormonal, ugly, resentful former self. I didn’t want him to ask me to marry him with a question mark in his voice, asking not just “Will you marry me?” but also, “Is this a stupid idea?” and “Am I good enough for you?” and “Are you good enough for me, or are you actually completely terrible?”

I wanted him to be sure, because I wasn’t. I wasn’t sure if I was good enough for him or for myself or for marriage. I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend forever with anyone, least of all myself. But I was very, very sure, at that particular moment on our trip, that nothing would ever make me happy. I was sure that I would drag him down into hell with me.

I wasn’t wrong about that. Because when we arrived at our hotel north of Valencia, we finally broke into a giant fight — about how tedious and repugnant he insisted on being, maybe, or about choosing the wrong hotel or about something even smaller, who knows? (You can fight with an overpacked bag about anything under the sun, trust me). And I yelled at my perfect future husband. I yelled at him in my bad sleep shorts, with my tangled, ugly hair on my hideous head, and as I yelled I thought, “This will release me from this purgatorial entanglement! I’m free! I am disgusting and I deserve to be alone forever!” My future husband stormed out. Success!

He returned a half-hour later. He sat next to me on the bed, where I was reading. He was apologetic, which was helpful and yet also unattractive. Then he spoke. “There was a jewelry festival of some kind downstairs —” and he started to reach into his pocket.

This time I didn’t just yell. “NO!” I shrieked. “I told you I didn’t want this!” I wailed like someone about to jump off a cruise ship and drown in the salty terrible sea. I screeched like a woman smothering all of her former selves under an avalanche of self-loathing. I howled like a woman murdering the best thing that had ever happened to her, ruining the absolute best relationship with the kindest, most patient, most defensive, most exasperating, most handsome, most hideous man she had ever met. I bellowed and sobbed and snotted into my pillow, in my bad sleep shorts, in my bad hair, and my future husband yelled back, telling me I was terrible, finally admitting that I was awful, awful and unlovable, things I knew all along but wanted to hear out loud, and in English.

My disappointing future husband sat in the bathroom of our disappointing hotel room on a disappointing stretch of Spanish coastline for about 20 minutes. Then he came out. He did not show me the (probably disappointingly bad) ring he’d bought. We talked in ragged tones about what was happening to us. I cried. He sulked. We talked some more. We cuddled ambivalently on the uncomfortable mattress of the bad bed in the bad room, hating ourselves and each other, hating Spain and Europe and the whole planet and the inky black void beyond it.

♥.•´¯`•.¸¸.•..:*´¨`*:.☆

The next morning, we drove down the coast, sunshine streaming in the windows of our tiny rental car, over empty, winding roads. “The south of Spain!” a voice inside my head gushed. We stopped at a place called the Auto Grill. Among the bad pieces of pizza and wilted-looking salads, I found a sandwich made of fresh bread (finally!), manchego and jamon iberico wrapped in paper. My future husband found some very good olives and another sandwich with other cured meats involved, and we ate our sandwiches in the front seat of our tiny rental car in the parking lot, and we didn’t talk much.

All of us were there, our former selves and our current selves. We were excited and melancholy and needy and pissy and impatient and satisfied. And that was the most romantic moment of this very romantic story. Because as we sat and chewed, we realized that love had not transformed us into great, glowing gods, optimistic and invincible. Instead, all of our former and current selves would be packed into that tiny car like temperamental clowns, and our agony wouldn’t end when our trip was over. We were in for a rough ride that would last a lifetime, or even longer. Maybe we would even be jammed together like sardines in the afterlife. Anything was possible.

We ate our cured meats in silence and every now and then, we looked into each other’s eyes and we didn’t look away quickly. Because we knew that it was possible to be disgusted and annoyed and bored and still feel love — pounding, elated, passionate. In that moment, we were disheveled and ordinary, and also gorgeous and extraordinary. We belonged together. We were terrified, but we were sure.

Heather Havrilesky is the author of the upcoming essay collection “What If This Were Enough?” (October 2 from Doubleday). She’s been happily married for 12 years.