“Love is like a kitten. Feisty and stupid and oh my gosh awesome and you want like six more when that one gets old.” But you don’t want any more when that one dies. The other attachments you’ve formed flounder in your self-pity. You feel lucky for all the others not in your care, for they would suffer under your mournful neglect. You’re incapable of nurturing anything; handling yourself is enough work already. But you know one will fall into your lap, sooner or later, and if you are lucky you will love it as fiercely as the last one.