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The rain was falling hard.

That was the worst way to start any story.  Rain meant that right from the start, every  moment was going to turn into some cliche romance or tragedy, and consequently, somehow, it was going to end up as both. Isn’t romance always tragic?  To give yourself to someone so freely in hopes that they don’t know what the word rejection means.  Because you’ve lived with yourself long enough to know your a fucking whack job.  That you snore tunes that resemble Elton John.  That if you leave a light on once you’re in bed, you’re not getting up.  That you talk back to the television like you’re watching dora the explorer - and you’re never watching dora the explorer.  That you’re constantly irritating yourself with your quirky personality traits, but you’re stuck with you.  You’ve accepted that.  You just aren’t really sure if someone else can, but everyone keeps telling you someone’s gonna be a big enough idiot to to make sure you don’t fall into the toilet bowl and drown after you’ve had too much to drink.

Because that’s love.

And that isn’t this story.