Near the end of the opera

This is the part where the Fat Lady sings.

And I have to learn to cook.

Accustomed as I have become to GFs incredible culinary talents -- or ex-GF's talents, as the case has become -- I have developed an outrageously wide palate, and my tongue has been taught to expect something *delicious* pretty much every single night. I suppose if I have to admit something to myself here, it's that GF initially stirred my passions through ... food. (I had never tasted tomato soup that good! And once, there was this summer corn and clam chowder that was downright orgasmic, but she never made it again, in part because she doesn't like to cook the same thing twice.) In the end, the food was really fucking incredible, but that wasn't the passion I've been seeking.

Not that it was only about *food* with GF. There's actual love between us. And a passion for many things in common, just not for ... each other.

So I'll buy myself a set of Caphalon, because I have not a pot or pan to my name. But for now, I'm listening to La Boheme and letting Puccini rip my heart to shreds. As Mimi and Rodolpho knew, love just isn't enough sometimes -- no matter how much you wish it was.