See, I’m not a sociopath (as you not-so-subtly suggested, based on the fact that I use laughter as a healing tool). I am simply WELL. Not a hot mess, not a trainwreck. And when you collapse, I don’t want to be your therapist or your addiction or your fantasy, because instead I want to be the woman who loves you. The word “love” doesn’t nearly express what I mean anymore. But I tell you anyway. And I show you in all that I do, because love is a verb. When you tell me you made an appointment to check your sperm count, that might be the greatest expression of love I can imagine. Thank you. Then you tell me you don’t know what you want. You say you take life one day at a time. One day at a time, you cancel our plans. And you tell the world that you miss your late ex, that you and she were perfect. Oh my god. “You don’t have to call me God, just call me Dill Pickle.”