Ever since I locked eyes with my fair Juliet on the throbbing dance floor of Shooters, kissed her sweet vodka-scented lips in an ecstasy that transcends description, and shared with her the key to my heart—my snap, that is—I’ve found myself in the most agonizing of conundrums.
Jade-eyed Juliet appears to have forgotten our midnight tryst. Her replies to my each digitized billet-doux followed the attitude of “who dis?” and “idk any Tylers, sorry.” After my desperate recounting of our night of tenderness, she blocked me.
After sobbing, tearing a clump of my hair out, and peering up at my maiden upon her Swift balcony as I, lovelorn Romeo, cowered in the darkness below, I have come to a conclusion: Juliet seems to have the cognitive capacity of an infant, and therefore lacks object permanence.
A soberly scientific approach was necessary in diagnosing poor J. It all added up: her complete amnesia concerning her soulmate (me), her inability to comprehend and seek her most basic needs (me), and her naive dependence upon those unable to provide her the care she deserves (my affections), indicated a profoundly underdeveloped frontal lobe. Additionally, as is characteristic with young children, J struggles to pronounce words exceeding a four-syllable limit. She can be heard around campus uttering such inane yet endearing gibberish as “lol,” “probs,” and “rizz,” as in, “You have zero rizz, get those roses away from me, creep!”
To combat Juliet’s object-impermanent mindset, I must reintroduce myself to her daily. When she blocks me on one social media platform, I’m forced to start our relationship afresh on another…and another. Her condition is resistant to treatment, and it’s become so severe that her remembrance of our love is deeply buried. The only epistle I’ve received from her hand was labeled “Restraining Order.”
Despite the obstacles, which are inevitable in any romance, I know that my Juliet needs me. I have vowed to her time and time again that I will always be there for her. Always there. Always.