Army is leaving. He’s not going off to war, not to some distant dessert covered country but to Tampa. Where people go to die. Prehistoric man had Tar Pits to dispose of their elderly. We have Florida.

I’ve known it was coming. Since our first date I knew. What I didn’t know was that he’d still be around seven months later or that I would want him to stay. So, I’ll ask you again. What do you do when your relationship is ending? When you have a date when you know it will be over?.

How do you function when the dark cloud looming off in the distance for so long, has found its way directly overhead, attempting to block the sun at every turn and threatening to storm before you’ve remembered to open your umbrella?

To be honest, over the course of this relationship, my feelings towards this man have fluctuated more than a schizophrenic politician on a teeter-totter:

“He’s perfect – but I’m not over Fuckhead”

“He’s wonderful – but I don’t think I’m cut out to be a military wife”

“He takes care of me – but he’s leaving and I’m going to have to learn to live without him”

“He’s PERFECT – but is he perfect for me!?”

Because I’ve known that he’s leaving, it hasn’t exactly inspired me to open the emotional floodgates and give this relationship a real chance. Perhaps this is one time the Canadian got it right.

Nine months before he left for law school, he started to withdraw. He bucked all my attempts to continue a relationship even in the face of inevitable separation. Still retaining some semblance of romantic optimism at the tender age of 24, I was very much of the “no day but today” school of thought. The “let’s be happy today and not worry about tomorrow” mantra. He didn’t want me to get any closer and risk making it any harder.

So who was right? I still cried. But maybe not as much as I would have? I still loved him, but maybe not as much as I could have? Did we wasted precious time together or did we soften the blow?

While logically I know that it’s self defeating to keep worrying about the evitable and to let it spoil the time you have left; part of me hopes that whatever walls and barricades I’ve managed to build, will still be standing after the next two weeks.

Frankly, with the cloud of separation growing at an exponential pace over all my attempts to keep my blue skies blue – its hard not to feel frustrated. And angry. Even if it WAS/IS good that we met and event if he WAS good for me and what I needed circa a broken-hearted January….I’m just tired. I’m tired of the leaving and the goodbyes and the tears and building back up: a little stronger and a little thicker.

Then again, maybe its classic Scarlett – only wanting something that I can’t have. Either way, I’m sick of the walls and the floods and the storms and the survival and the reconstruction.

Isn’t there anything that lasts forever?

I admit it – I cried.

I cried when I gave her the box. The box I’ve been hiding under my bed for the past seven months. The box with your fraternity t-shirts. Your college sweatshirt. Your books. Your clothes. Your shoes. Our pictures. Your gifts. Your cards with all your broken promises written inside. Everything that reminded me of you. Everything you left behind.

It was my last hold out. My last reason to say “remember me?” “remember what we had?” “Look at the pictures! – Remember how happy we were!? How we had everything? How we could do anything?”

And I let go.

I gave her the box. I don’t CARE what you do with it. I don’t want to know. - I told her. Don’t tell me – and take it now before I change my mind – before I decide to keep holding on. Take it. And go.

I loved you....and go.

The BBC – is the ONLY television news service I seem to be able to stomach these days. It is the only channel that isn’t giving updates of hurricane Dolly every twelve seconds (its raining, its windy – we get it already!) I mean seriously, what is there to be gained from the blurred images projected through rain soaked and wind pummeled lenses?

I seriously hope they find the poor little two year old that’s missing, but really – do I NEED a visual tour of her room? I HAVE to listen to another update with her lunatic grandmother screaming at reporters?

And if I have to see ONE MORE IMAGE of Barak O’Bama in a Yamaka touring the West Bank, I’m going to SCREAM. (Don’t get me wrong, every hoarse, strained, mundane speech given by his Republican counterpart is less than inspiring.). But you’d think this were Nixon going into Communist China or Regan stepping foot into Russia for the first time since Tsarist Russia the way this diplomatic cabaret has been celebrated and covered. It's reminicent of Eva Peron's equally celebrated: Rainbow Tour. (Sing it with me now!)

And at the risk of sounding US-centric and thus opening the door to being verbally throttled – why do we care who the Europeans (Germany and France in particular) want to be our next president?? Because the last time I checked the United States has both kicked and saved their asses, respectively - twice, within the past century. Since when has the election for the American Presidency taken on the pallor of global opinion?

I understand – strategically - the need to visually inject the steroid of foreign policy and/or diplomatic experience into the aspiring candidate’s resume. However, I can’t ignore the fact that the entire spectacle is making me ill.

Thank GOD for the BBC.

Frankly,

On a more positive note: It is the most fucking GEORGOUS morning I can remember in a LONG time. The breeze cooled by the night rain, the only traces of humidity left by the storms seem to be the puddles on the ground, the sky serving as a muse for Crayola blue. Sigh. Just beautiful.