It's no occasion, it's no story I could tell

What is love?

A nice easy question there then, and not one that is likely to be answered in a couple of trite paragraphs on some no-mark's 'blog. But here's the thing that's been troubling me... you think you know what love is, and you think you're trundling along in love and knowing that life isn't all hearts and flowers, but that's okay because this is real life, not some Brit-flick rom-com. But then something happens... and all of a sudden you start to wonder if what you have is just extreme care and friendship, and a lot of shared history. Does that make it love though? Does any of that make the pulse quicken? Does any of that cause adrenalin to surge through the body? Do you yearn for any of that when it is not there? And does the loss of that leave a gaping hole in the very centre of you, a chasm where your insides used to be?

I thought I was in love with someone.... but what do you know, it turns out I'm not. What triggered this realisation? Well, you don't actually expect me to commit that to writing, do you?

Funny old world, isn't it?

Nice guys finish last

I know it's a cliché but it's true isn't it? Nice guys finish last. It doesn't matter how hard you try to do everything right, or how much you hope that this approach will pay dividends, it sometimes seems very hard to avoid the conclusion that the nicer you try to be, the more life f**ks you over. Why doesn't the nice guy get the girl? Outside of Hollywood, that is... Why doesn't the nice guy get the top job? Why doesn't the nice guy get to be happy?

Yes, I am moaning. Yes, I used the f-word in the last paragraph. Yes, I am angry at the world, and yes, I drove to work this morning with The Smiths cranked up to 11 to further my maudlin angst. And finally yes, none of the above matters because no f**ker reads this 'blog anyway. Here endeth the lesson.