People often say that love is easy when it's real and that when it's true love, it is nothing short of perfect. There's no drama, no late nights spent worrying about the small stuff. Just pure, unadulterated bliss.
Maybe it's the cynic in me but if that's the case, then true love doesn't exist. That or it exists but wouldn't know how to find me if there was a big, pulsating red arrow pointing at me.
I've come to realize that all my (failed) relationships only had one thing in common. Me. Maybe there's something in me that turns decent, honest men into cheating, manipulative sons of bitches.
