There is a pride we savior in wallowing in our own unique sorrow. A rhythm. A deliciousness to it that we revel in. That secretly or not so, we crave. We want to have adverse reactions to our old love songs, cautiously avoid the paths we used to trod through whatever city. We want to put distance between re-experiencing those memories and emotions. We want our heart to whither as we think about those songs. We want it to be toxic illegal awfality.