I’m seldom able to revel in the depths of love for more than a fleeting moment. When you’re supposed to fend off the uncertainty of the future and wholeheartedly drink up the sweetness of the enchanted present, my ilk can be found on the porch shotgunning a cold can of cautious cynicism. At my best I only partially absorb the weightlessness of romantic bliss when it comes my way, always aware of its looming doom. To quote Outkast’s most chipper song, Hey Ya, “If what they say is, nothing lasts forever, then what make’s love the exception?” Andre 3000 poses a pressing question: “Why oh why oh, are we so in denial if we know we’re not happy here?”

A few years ago I was outside a college party, several sheets to the wind, chopping it up with a sage-like compadre who is now tragically deceased. In between drags of his Camel Blues we spoke about relationships, and unbeknownst to me, he was about to drop something on me that would irrevocably change my perception of intimacy and commitment.

“There’s only two possible outcomes to every relationship,” he asserted confidently. “You break up, or you’re together until one of you dies. That’s it.”

It’s straightforward simple logic, but still rattled me as I had never thought of love as binary as that. Two years into someone I loved dearly, my understanding was that relationships were complex, nuanced, sticky. It was baffling to me that virtually all relationships, no matter how healthy or toxic, could be unequivocally boiled down to two potential futures. Are you in a relationship? Well, the future of you and your partner will be unavoidably characterized by one of those two options. Which one is it? Would your partner answer the same way, with the same conviction?

We’ve all heard the divorce rate hovers around 50%, although that number has been heavily debated (probably by people who are married). It does appear to be trending downwards, which either means that matrimonial couples are sticking with sub-par marriages, or that sub-par couples are getting married less frequently. Regardless, the best case scenario doesn’t instill all that much confidence. You can be together until one of you dies, leaving you with an ineffable sadness that haunts your remaining days, or you can breakup sooner and carry the remnants of your partner with you forever, making your heart a little heavier. On paper I suppose the former is marginally more ideal, having lived a love-filled life, but who’s to say? Does the pain of losing your life partner warrant the time you spent together? Is it always better to have “loved and lost”?

The romantic apathy that follows the departure from another person you’ve intimately bonded with can be soul-sucking. There’s a human-sized void in your psyche that can only be filled drop by drop, and the wholeness of it seems impossible to tackle. It makes it damn difficult to convince yourself to start again from square one with someone new. And why would you, knowing the statistical likelihood of its failure and the catatonic fallout that follows its floundering? Any levelheaded mathematician would determine that the ends don’t justify the means, and yet, almost all of us try again.

Our culture dictates that you’re supposed to get over the people you’ve loved, which is a concept I’ve never quite understood. How can you “get over” someone you’ve built an impossible cosmic bond with? Someone altered your psyche and shattered your view of human connection, and you’re expected to shed the entire experience by the wayside like you’re deleting web history? You don’t get over those people, you carry them with you. Some call that “baggage”, but I call it “character development”.

I’ve been in love. At least once or twice, I think… although I do know a few people that would be offended by their absence from that list. I understand the benefits — the feeling of invincibility, the imperceptible sense of fulfillment, the way you moon-walk out of bed in the morning. It feels damn good, not only because of the serotonin superpower you’re blessed with, but because it quells the daily anxieties and sadness that loneliness is plagued with. When it’s done right, your partner isn’t just a sidekick but rather a full-fledged superhero fighting alongside you as you journey through the banes of existence. Negative thoughts grow quiet and are replaced with novel affection and cheers from the stands of diehard romantics rooting you on.

Maybe you’re about it, and despite the odds are willing to take the leap into a perilous partnership with your best foot forward, to which I say, kudos. The feeling is too good to avoid in the average life. To the others, I propose an equally profound disposition, also penned by the great Andre 3000 in the song Hey Ya: “I don’t want to meet your daddy, I just want you in my caddy.”