In regards to a romantic relationship, the question "Where are we going?" has nothing to do with the future.  The rhetoric itself is irrelevant.  The answer is or should always be, "I don't know."  Things are going well if you're not asking the question, if you are immersed with the present, if you are content.

After I changed my facebook status to "single," I popped a 300mg capsule of lithium, and proceeded to lie in bed and attempt to think.  Coming to no coherent conclusions, I decided to drive to Borders and finish reading When You Are Engulfed in Flames.  A chai tea latte, a cream cheese pretzel, and some good lit can go a long way. 

Back in high school, when I had hope for my future, I actually wrote my college essay about David Sedaris.  It was written for the audience of competitive liberal arts school admission officers:  it's intent was both reflect my mastery of the syntax and mechanics of the English language while demonstrating my interest in the booklists of the intellectually elite.  It was also completely honest.  I absolutely adore his work and can only hope to be as half a good a writer as he is or live a life a fraction as interesting.

So here's a short story:

Coming home from the bookstore, as I was about to pull into my driveway, I spotted something dark and bulbous, about the size of a softball, in the middle of the street.  It was equidistant from my driveway and the curb, and I approached it cautiously thinking it was someone's discarded paper bag from Mcdonalds.  And then... it hopped.

I carefully maneuvered around Kermit to get into my driveway, quickly heading inside to find my brother.  In that instant, all my earlier concerns paled in the situation of this slimy creature, alone and vulnerable.

 "There's a bullfrog in the middle of street!  Help me catch it before it gets hit by a car."

And so we headed out. I held the flashlight, and my brother, with experience in boyscouts, snuck up behind it, explaining how you have to hold it by the belly; the warmth of your hands calms it down.  As we cornered the scared thing against the curb, my brother was able to snatch it mid-jump, whereupon it promptly peed on my brother's foot.  Then we carried it up the street and released it into the pond where it must have come from.

I still can't fathom how the fellow got there in the first place.  I find it hard to believe that a frog would willingly hop a good 300 or 400 meters away from its natural environment and safety.  It might sound silly, but it's instances like these which make my agnostic self question the existence of a higher power.  It just seems symbolic that on the night of my first traumatic breakup I would find a large frog in the middle of my road, in front of my driveway, as if it were waiting for me. 

I once wrote a poem titled "180° Fairytale" which I am planning on putting into novel form one day.  I guess I can only hope that this is beginning of my 180° Fairytale, and that the frog will one day turn into my prince.