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I was dating someone younger, better-looking and richer than me. He was even friends with Taylor Swift.
We'd been an item for many months. Long enough for me to meet all of his friends and feel like I'd become part of the group. And long enough for something in the relationship to change.
The change was simple: the ardor between us had cooled. Put more simply: the sex wasn't as good or as frequent as it had been at the beginning.
Thanksgiving and the holidays were fast approaching, a time when we would be meeting each others' families and exchanging gifts with deeper meanings than mere material possessions.
We planned a party, and all his friends were there. Even Taylor Swift. I mingled and spoke with everyone, drinking and laughing, fully aware that I had an ulterior motive. I wanted to secure my place with these people, in the hope that it would also secure my relationship with this young, good-looking and wealthy man.
At one point he found me in the crowd, and led me to a quiet room somewhere inside an enormous house. He said that from here on out we were going to be "just friends." Our love affair was over. It had been over for some time. It would not return.
I wandered back out into the party, dazed and a little drunk. All his friends looked at me with somber and pitying looks. One of them said that everyone had entered their contact information on a Google spreadsheet, so that I could keep in touch with them.
"You mean, everyone knew this was going to happen?" I asked.
Yes, they said. And this was my going-away party.