Disclaimer: I don't own Nesquik, btw. It belongs to Nestle, in all its sugariness.

When looking back on their lives, many people find a way to connect or compare their past relationships. Whether it be a pattern of all of their past boyfriends having the letter "w" in their names or finding that each girlfriend they had before their last had traits or a personality that coincided with a respective season, it helps us make sense of the people we shared the various parts of our lives with.

If this actually is true and helps us come to peace with the relationships of past, I don't know, but I do know that most people can find a connection if the look close enough. The trouble is, if you are looking that close, it most likely means that those relationships still have a pull on you. After a contemplation on the subject myself, I came to a surprising conclusion. Of course, it's very likely that I could find other things to compare my failed relationships to, but this is the first that crossed my mind and hopefully the most accurate.

I find that my past relationships all have similarities with my relationship with milk.

When I was kid, I drank milk everyday, without question.

I didn't really have reason to question it all. I knew it was good for me-what with calcium and vitamin D and whatever-and I knew it stopped osteoporosis because those speakers came to my class in first grade warning of the dangers of weak bones and I know I either had it with cereal or drank it with pancakes.

There wasn't much I cared to know about milk, and it was just a constant in my life. My parents stressed the importance of having strong bones so I would grow up to be "big and strong". And of course as a child who knew she needed anything she could get to be "big and strong"-especially a child who skimped out on vegetables any chance she got-I thought milk was an easy, simple option.

My favorite was when I would take the powdered flavorings of my beloved Nesquik and mix it so that it turned my pure white milk into bright pink strawberry or rich brown chocolate milk. The days my parents would concede to letting me add the sugary stuff would be my favorite. My siblings and I would fight over who got to pour it, knowing that the one honored with such a task would undoubtedly give themselves just a bit more of the sweet sugar.

However, despite its additives, I knew I had to drink milk. Milk was good for me.

David was good for me.

David was the boy you brought home and your mom gushed over and your dad begrudgingly shook hands with. David was blond hair and the brightest blue eyes and tall, stable body. David was from a big family and respected elders greatly. David had big hands and a strong grip and a slight, sweet accent.

And so I fell for David like when you have your first celebrity crush-fully, devotedly, determined only to him.

And David took my hand in his when we walked or when we watched movies at the theatre. He kissed me sweetly when he left, a lingering sensation that made my toes curl and face heat up. David made me feel like a girl from a movie, or song, or book, and like infinity and forever young was possible. And although in the back of mind I knew it was ridiculous to be hung up on such a notion, the days would just pass so slowly with him I saw no reason to think otherwise.

But my favorite moments with him was when he showed me the sides that no one else saw. His bright, intuitive side that questioned absolutely everything and everyone. The one who searched for the answers in the world and was determined to understand the workings of life. Where someone would ask why their computer would stop working, he would ponder as to how it began working in the first place and how it got to that point. He was full of counter arguments, and then retorts for the counter arguments.

But in front of everyone else he was a perfect gentleman who did what he was told and who treated me like a lady.

As I continued to grow, something changed. To this day, I still cannot pin point exactly what it was or when it happened but nonetheless my taste buds reorganized themselves.

And I hated milk.

The taste was disgusting, and the aftertaste even worse. The thought of drinking a whole glass of it was soon nauseating to me. My family understood it even less than I did, and started allowing me to put those special additives even more if it meant I would drink my milk. But all of a sudden I was needing to put spoonful after spoonful of the mix in order not the taste the milk, to the point where I would get sick.

Suddenly the only time I could take milk was in my cereal, and even then it was just barely. Soon I stopped eating cereal so much, had pancakes and waffles much more frequently, and finished it down with a crisp cup of juice.

I had my fill of milk, and now I was sick of it.

I had my fill of David, and now I was sick of him.

It seems harsh, I know, but something was lacking, something I couldn't place.

David never faltered, never failed. He did the same things I had always cherished, the perfect gentleman. And I grew bored and frustrated. Instead of the warmth of his hand embracing mine, I now felt a clammy palm grasping my fingers too tightly. Where soft kisses once left me dazed and unaware, the routine peck only now allowed time for me to go over what I had to do when I got home. The long days no longer felt leisurely, but instead seemed like a waste of time.

I felt myself slipping away, but I didn't want to. I berated myself constantly, knowing David was safe, comfortable, everything my parents dreamed of. My mother pestered me, constantly curious as to why and how I could ever feel this was, and even my father seemed confused. They seemed to need to stress that a boy like his comes only once in lifetime-and that's if you're lucky. And there words fell on desperate ears as I sought for a way to convince myself to fall for him again.

I began engaging him in every conversation topic I could, trying to will myself to get lost in his eyes as he spoke about the things he believed in. His mouth moved over words just as eloquently. His mind still captured the knowledge and facts needed to make his points clear. His bright blue eyes still captured that passion for what he so desperately wanted to understand. He hadn't changed a bit from the exhilarating boy I had come to know. But I had.

I don't know how or why or when, but me and my feelings for David had dwindled and there was nothing I could do. And as I explained this all to him with tears and apologies and promises friendship, he nodded sadly, and then gathered me in his arms for a final farewell.

And then I continued life, because though I would miss the comfort and stability of David, there was a whole world for me.

Still til this day I can't stand the taste of milk. However, when I was younger I could still deal with milk containing products, the most common of which was cereal with milk.

Which bring me to Brandon.