I don't own any Series of Unfortunate Events Characters. I just made up a story about it.
Prologue
It is an inevitable fact that love stories are often maligned and unjustly stereotyped. I'm sure many of my sympathetic readers out there in the wide world agree. When the often impossibly skinny girl falls for the always impossibly sensitive guy, we all squirm in our seats as they inevitably proceed to kiss in the rain. Then we sigh-guy and girl wind up together again? BORING. Because we saw it coming ,we did. Then there's the other alternative, in which skinny always winds up dead from an incurable disease or sensitive charges to the rescue of his lady-love, and winds up flattened by a speeding train(which, ironically, is also incurable). There is a third option; in the well-known Shakespearean way, of killing off both skinny and sensitive( which almost always has to do with rebelling against their parent's wishes to stop being so immature and just marry the mailman for pity's sake) but that in my opinion, is the easy way out.
You see, we leave the movie theater much more depressed and cynical if only one love is dead while the other remains, to pine for all eternity...
After experiencing one of these ghastly examples of true love, you find yourself either depressed, or ashamed at wasting an hour and fifty-nine minutes of your valuable life- two very uncomfortable places to be I might add.
I was in fact just about to assure you that this love story is nothing like what I mentioned above, when I realized, sadly, that I cannot. After reading this story, you will most likely be sad for the characters, but you will feel even more remorse over the fact that those who lose their dearest loves are not actors and actresses on some stage but are normal people. They have jobs and hobbies and guinea pigs like you and I. They reluctantly wake up in the morning, drink their coffee and endure traffic like any other person. They live their life, whether in toleration or despair I do not know, for losing your love can be a life-altering experience. I remember when I lost mine(along with my favorite cd), I could hardly look at Antonelly's Peppermint Shop or listen to a Switchfoot song without bursting into loud wails. So now that we have noted that people who have lost a loved one live normal lives, I must pose some questions regarding my account. What of those who do not lead normal lives? You are staring at me oddly, yet I mean what I say. What of whose jobs are so dangerous I cannot even tell you what they are, only that they involve ancient Polynesian codes, poison darts, and fettuccini sauce? What of those whose hobbies involve rhetorical analysis, bat training, or smuggling volumes of poetry into Peru? What of your next door neighbor who feeds his guinea pigs special super power guinea pig formula? This question I can answer. Their heartache is just the same.
The next question I must pose is the theme of my entire collection of playbills, diary entries, newspaper clippings, eyewitness accounts, and several files stolen from the A.L.S.(Amateur Limerick Society) which cannot really be called a story. The question(which can change tense as needed) , the counter piece for this tale is simply this-"Was it Love?"
Now the question, "Is it love?"(notice tense change) like the questions, "Is it alive?" or "Is it refundable?" have disappointing and more than likely frightening answers. The greatest minds of our time over the years have struggled with it, Shakespeare, Homer, Elvis, John Milton, Jon Foreman, even I myself. Even you yourself, perhaps on a cloudy day, when you're feeling glum, or watching Oprah,( or trying to evade the street vendor and his hot dog stand who are following you) have asked the question, shakily, hesitantly, regretfully( as the person who is the receiver of said affection may be in line at the supermarket behind you) "Was it love?". As you read this account, I would like you to ponder the answer to reason behind the reason that such unfortunate things happen to unfortunate people, and if the answer is a question, and if that question is, "Was it love?". Who can tell? Was it fire? Was it an accident? Was it Bono? Was it a secret message never sent? Was it love? Hey, I just want you to be able to listen to Switchfoot and eat peppermints with a peaceful mind.