The Book of Joe

starred Leonardo DiCaprio and Kirsten Dunst, and did some pretty decent box office. Or maybe you read about the major controversy it caused back in my hometown, where they even went so far as to put together a class action libel suit against me that never went anywhere. Either way, the book was a runaway bestseller about two and a half years ago, and for a little while there, I became a minor celebrity.
    Any schmuck can be unhappy when things aren’t going well, but it takes a truly unique variety of schmuck, a real innovator in the schmuck field, to be unhappy when things are going as great as they are for me. At thirty-four, I’m rich, successful, have sex on a fairly regular basis, and live in a three-bedroom luxury apartment on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. This should be ample reason to feel that I have the world by its proverbial short hairs, yet I’ve recently developed the sneaking suspicion that underneath it all I am one sad, lonely son of a bitch, and have been for some time.
    While there is no paucity of women in my life these days, it nevertheless seems that every relationship I’ve had in the two and a half years since the publication of Bush Falls has lasted almost exactly eight weeks, following the same essential flight pattern. In the first week I pull out all the stops - fancy restaurants, concerts, Broadway shows, and trendy nightclubs - modestly avoiding any high-minded banter concerning the literary world in favor of current events, movies, and celebrity gossip, which are of course the real currency in the New York dating scene, even if no one will admit it. Not that being a celebrated author isn’t worth something, but stories about Miramax parties or how you hung out on the set with Leo and Kirsten will get you laid much faster and by a better caliber of woman. Weeks two and three are generally the best, the time you’d like to bottle and store, primarily due to the endorphin rush of fresh sex. At some point in the fourth week, I fall in love, briefly considering the possibility that this could be The One, and then everything pretty much goes to shit in slow motion. I waffle, I vacillate, I get insecure, I come on too strong. I conduct little psychological experiments on myself or the woman involved. You get the picture. This goes on for a couple of painfully awkward weeks, and then we both spend week seven in the fervent hope that the relationship will magically dissolve on its own, through an act of god or spontaneous combustion - anything to avoid having to actually navigate the tediously perilous terrain of a full-blown breakup. The last week is spent “taking some time,” which ends with a final, perfunctory phone call finalizing the arrangement and resolving any outstanding logistics. I’ll drop the bag and Donna Karan sweater you left in my apartment with the doorman, you can keep the books I lent you, thanks for the memories, no hard feelings, let’s stay friends, et cetera, ad nauseam.
    I know it bespeaks poor character to blame others for your problems, but I’m fairly certain this is all Carly’s fault. Carly Diamond was my high school girlfriend, the first - and, to date, only - woman I’ve ever loved. We were together for our entire senior year, and loved each other with the fierce, time-less conviction of teenagers. That was the same year that all the terrible events described in my novel occurred, and my relationship with her was the lone bright spot in my dismally expanding universe.
    If you want to get technical about it, we never actually broke up. We graduated high school and went to different colleges, Carly up to Harvard and me down to NYU. We tried to do the long-distance thing, but my adamant refusal to return to the Falls for our mutual vacations made it difficult, and over time we simply grew apart, but we never formally dissolved our relationship. After college, Carly came to New York to study journalism, at which point we embarked on one of those long, messy postgraduate friendships where you have just enough sex to thoroughly confuse the hell out of each other and ultimately, through a sequence of poor timing and third-party complications, fuck the life out of what was once the purest thing you’d ever known.
    We still loved each other then, that much was obvious, but while Carly seemed ready to reclaim our relationship, I kept finding reasons to remain uncommitted. No matter how much I loved her - and I did - I was constantly comparing the timbre of