If I told you the facts of a young boy and girl committing suicide over heartbreak after meeting just days before, you'd call them mad and be railing against their parents on Oprah. But when you read Romeo & Juliet, it's another story altogether.

Why is it reasonable to believe in love at first sight just because it occurred hundreds of years ago? Are we so jaded that we can't imagine true love here, now?

We describe all of our relationships by what they are not. By how imperfect they are. By their flaws. Single-parent households. Step fathers. Overactive children. Domineering husbands/wives. Every subtlety deserves classification and an inherent ranking. It's almost as if we expect failure.

If the participants in the relationship are satisfied, everyone else be damned. It's hard enough to make one another happy without trying to please the world.