It was a rainy, overcast first Saturday in June of 2003, in Honolulu, when I decided to lower the proverbial boom on my relationship of nearly nine years. While I am fairly certain that my lover saw the end coming, as did I, I think he thought, again, as did I, that we could, somehow, work everything out so that we were both happy and engaged with each other in a way we had not been in years. I, however, or, rather, my slightly insane need for HIGH DRAMA, would not allow any of that.

As the gun fired on the television, signaling the beginning of the 135th running of the Triple Crown of Horse Racing's Belmont Stakes, in an equally wet and dreary Long Island, New York, I made a decision. A lucid and / or rational decision, no, but a decision, nonetheless: if Funny Cide, the horse favored to become the 12th Triple Crown Winner, did not win the Belmont Stakes, as he had won the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness Stakes, I decided, I would break up with my lover as soon as the race was completed. Less than three minutes later, and true to my decision, oiled with resolve and lots and lots of vodka, as Funny Cide placed a disappointing "Show" instead of the coveted "Win," I took a deep breath, set my martini glass down on the cocktail table, lit a cigarette, turned to my lover, and said, "We need to break up."