Torn Between Two Lovers, Feelin' Like A Fool ... Steemit vs Hive

Earlier today I left the following message on the Power House Creative's Discord Channel:

With our august @jaynie's assistance, I managed to successfully log onto Hive. Lesson learned: Swearing (at least in French and English) doesn't help. While my wallet remains dysfunctional, I figure so what? Even if I lost every Hive to which I'm entitled, what would I be losing in reality? A case of beer? Or, perhaps more realistically, a six-pack? In any event, I am actually pretty stoked as I didn't have to buy a new laptop which is how I normally solve computer problems that last longer than 15 minutes. A penny saved is a penny earned.

Anyway, thus technologically enabled, I sat down to compose my first Hive post. It was a strangely melancholy experience, seemingly the end of an era and the beginning of the next. For whatever reason, the lyrics of a particular song started wafting through my mind:

Torn between two lovers, feelin' like a fool
Lovin' both of you is breakin' all the rules
Torn between two lovers, feelin' like a fool
Lovin' you both is breakin' all the rules

I've been posting on Steemit so long that posting anywhere else kind of feels like "cheating." My lyrical reminiscing compelled me to pull up a video on YouTube so as to listen to a song I hadn't heard in decades.

I couldn't help but marvel, "Huh, a love song predicated upon ... adultery." A rather odd way of approaching a serenade. As I mulled the matter, counter-metaphorical insights began popping off like fireworks.

Here was Mary MacGregor crooning about her inability to pick between two great guys. I, on the other hand, was dating two psychopaths locked in mortal combat to see who could kill me first. Justine nibbling on my ear while slipping a purple liquid into my coffee, while Witnessia lovingly tries to get me to suck on apricot pits which, I alarmingly discover on Google, contain cyanide.

Why am I dating either of these crazy bitches?

Why can't I just find a nice girl who laughs at my jokes and, for seemingly no reason other than to be nice, brings me a glass of Merlot with a grilled cheese sandwich?

I know what you're thinking:

Quill, you're high-maintenance. Always whining about antidotes and such. No one's perfect."

I guess you might have a point.

No one lives forever.

Quill