ClashFling: Seven Year Itch EditionGideon6/26/14 8:09am707EditPromoteShare to KinjaGo to permalinkWeek-long commenter marriages have happened, and the honeymoon is truly over. Everyone knows that marriages, and relationships in general, are hard work to maintain. But there is nothing that isn't solved by sleeping around a bit, right? So engage in your flings here. Place personal ads, bleat about your marital woes, whatever, I guess. When invited to my wedding, one of my former mentors said, "Marriages end in either death or divorce, and neither are pleasant to go through." After a few years of being dry, he recently took up vodka and seems pretty happy with his circumstances.ICN is great and all, but our George and Martha act is quite demanding on both us and our imagined audience, both of us screaming into the windows, "Why aren't you laughing? That was hilarious, you humourless scolds." My voice is hoarse. So I'm looking for the kind of person who would read the latest David Sedaris essay in The New Yorker and see a glimpse of themselves in the following sections: I began pacing the airport rather than doing what I normally do, which is sit in the waiting area, wondering which of the many people around me will die first, and of what. [...]There are no street lights where we live, and the houses I pass at 11 P.M. are either dark or very dimly lit. I often hear owls, and the flapping of woodcocks disturbed by the beam of my flashlight. One night, I heard a creaking sound, and noticed that the minivan parked a dozen or so steps ahead of me was rocking back and forth. A lot of people where we live seem to have sex in their cars. I know this because I find their used condoms, sometimes on the road but more often just off it, in little pull-over areas. In addition to spent condoms, in one of the spots that I patrol I regularly pick up empty KFC containers and a great number of soiled Handi Wipes. Do they eat fried chicken and then have sex, or is it the other way round? I wonder. [...]I staggered home with my flashlight knowing that I'd advance to sixty-five thousand, and that there will be no end to it until my feet snap off at the ankles. Then it'll just be my jagged bones stabbing into the soft ground. Why is it some people can manage a thing like a Fitbit, while others go off the rails and allow it to rule, and perhaps even ruin, their lives?