a trope used in literature with some regularity is the wistful remembrance of something beautiful and lost. the protagonist looks back at a love lost, an opportunity missed, and smiles gently to herself. this has never failed to piss me off. i am not one for wistful remembrance, and telling me that one day some heartbreaking event will evoke just such feelings in me is a sure-fire way of getting the blunt end of my temper. having finally become convinced in recent years that i am a realist with a soupçon of romanticism thrown in, it makes sense that i refuse to squander opportunities and lose loves for the express purpose of generating some pretty sunlit memory. things lost and squandered piss me off, and i refuse to do it for the sake of feeding some esthetically pleasing but morally questionable melancholiaphilia. pretty sunlit memories are made of things done, embraced, attempted, tasted and accomplished. the rest can fuck right off.