My life, it seems, is compiled not in days and years or even in cups of coffee as one musical rendition of urban mid-twenties angst would suggest, but in a series of misadventures and bad timing; or more appropriately, tragically ill-fated good timing . I am one of those people that has all the stories a good hostess of a cocktail party needs to keep the entertainment lively, where you can haughtily laugh at the mild misfortunes of the narrator because clearly she has come out the other end of the tale unscathed since she is relating to you her tale while impeccably dressed and with nothing more than an air of bitter tinged amusement only bestowed upon those who have the good stories to tell. Here is where you can discern the real from the fake. That twinkle, the knowing not quite polished edge of her voice as she relays the story, humorous in hindsight yet tragically cracked. A glass vase reglued. The great embellishers of the world lack this grit, this singular brand the fraternity of the three fates burns into those they choose for their ironic amusement. I do suppose I should be grateful, I'd rather be a toy for fortunes whims than a monument to mediocrity.

This blog shall begin at an ending, not of a war, or a great love, no nothing predictably epic. The ending of a barely budding romance which in itself leaves not a life altering impression, but brought with it the clarity I can only hope is impervious to my sarcasm.