But it's like having bad sex. You do it because it's better than nothing, and then you realize it really isn't.*
Such has been my relationship with this swell. Seriously. I can think of no other way to describe how much quality time I seem to be wasting on it.
Dear Worst Best Epic Swell of Summer 2011,
I've tasted your forbidden fruit—your muscular shoulders, your strong currents and all that has me hyperventilating and licking my lips at the very sight of you. Yes, I'm a trollop. My head was easily turned by word of your arrival. I'd yet to spy your wares, and I already wanted a piece of you.
Well, you and I are through, Worst Best Epic Swell of Summer 2011. It's obvious to me that you've been hitting the gym; you seemed to be the total package: good looks, a beautiful physique, et al. But now that I've spent some time with you, I realize I need more from a relationship. Something is missing. Therefore, this thing we've got, or don't got (as you would say), must come to an end. Our two day stand left me wanting nothing more to do with you.
It's not you. It's me. There are others, male and female, who appreciate you for what you are. I will keep waiting for Mr. Right, being more open to the waves that come my way on a regular basis. They may not have your looks, but they're loyal. They may have a few wrinkles, scars, warts and the like. Still, they deliver . . . all the time.
I'm quitting you, dude. No, don't look back. It's more painful that way. I'll be fine. Really, I will. You're not the only game in town, you know.
*That was a Steiny-style blog post title. I'd made the statement in a comment on a friend's blog, then decided I needed to steal it for my own blog!