Today on the way out of the Bull Street garage, idling behind a stream of students queued up for the exit, I distractedly considered my current relationship with Kristi. (La francaise.) It's awfully new, but it's awfully sweet, and it's something I really don't want to fuck up. So my mind recursively calls up images of relationships past, over and over again, comparing and contrasting and trying to analyze: is this something that could work over a long period? Is it destined to fail or to fade? How much of what is good about it is the sex, as opposed to how much of the sex being so good is what's good about the rest? How well do we talk to each other about un-romantic things? Would we be friends? How much would it hurt if I got used to her being there, and then she wasn't? How do you tell sex from love, and love from sex, really, when you're trying for both? What is love?
And at that moment, I realized I had just, in fact, internally verbalized the lyrics from a Haddaway song. In a deeply serious way. So I hastily kicked on a Daft Punk album and Robot Rock-ed my cheesy ass all the way to the next customer's office.