This book was written when I was in a bad place. You could say I was not in a good place. In fact, that's how I chose to say it. See? It's the title. It's about love, and more pointedly, the loss of it. It's about finding words and places and random household objects with more meaning in the absence of the people that made that stuff feel special. It's about feeling foolish in the wake of heartbreak. It's about yelling at god to feel a little more significant than any of us really is. But more than any of that, it's just me avoiding therapy with words and more attempts at public affirmation. I hope you dig it. And if you don't, I hope the next time you cook pasta it gets mushy and gross and that you don't even have any extra pasta in the pantry so you just have to eat saltines. And milk. Like a weirdo.