I accidentally married a black hat
Le Samouraï (1967)
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to bid farewell to a relationship that was doomed from the moment I ignored all rational thought and decided to date a man whose main personality trait was ‘tall.’ This union, like a budget airline flight, began with great excitement but quickly descended into regret, turbulence, and an overwhelming desire to jump out midair.
The opening eulogy
It is with great sorrow and mild amusement that I announce the passing of Our Relationship, a once-promising endeavour that suffered from chronic neglect, terminal emotional constipation, and, in its final stages, a severe case of ‘let’s just not talk about anything meaningful ever.’
From the outside, we looked perfect. The brooding, rock-star-adjacent man and the (actual) interesting woman beside him. Friends admired us. Strangers envied us. Meanwhile, I was gaslighting myself so hard I should’ve been on the payroll at Shell. I never spoke about our problems to friends because that would mean admitting that dating an adult man who still lived with his failed painter father in a squat-like apartment that smelled like crushed dreams may not have been a wise investment.
And this, dear mourners, leads us to the great existential question of our time: why do otherwise intelligent, reasonable people ignore every screaming red flag and willingly dive headfirst into emotional quicksand? Was it biology? Some desperate, ancient reptilian part of my brain mistaking ‘muscled, bearded, and moody’ for ‘strong provider and protector’ instead of ‘man with deeply unresolved issues who mistakes brooding silence for depth’? Or perhaps a subconscious, masochistic desire to experience suffering, the same part of the brain that makes people run marathons even though no one is chasing them? Or was I simply participating in the long-standing human tradition of confusing self-destruction with adventure?
The Godfather (1972)
Or, and hear me out - was it that, on some cosmic level, I needed to test my own limits? Like a scientist whose work demands they repeatedly set fire to themselves in the name of progress, I needed to determine: how far can one go into a doomed relationship before one’s dignity files for divorce first? Was this love, or just an elaborate 2,5 year-long psychological experiment on the nature of personal delusion?
And what was it, exactly, that first lured me in? The hat. That damn black hat.
A carefully curated accessory, an illusion of mystery, of artistic depth. That hat whispered promises of poetry, of long, deep conversations, of a man who read books and listened to vinyl records. Instead, I got protein shakes and a man who thought wealth creation was a mystical art, best achieved by flipping NFTs, investing in obscure crypto schemes, and watching YouTube videos with titles like ‘How to be a millionaire in 5 minutes’ while shitting. A man who revered politicians not for their leadership, but for their ability to commit grand-scale heists in full view of the public, sign autographs afterwards, and still get re-elected with a landslide.
The Sopranos (1999)
And if so, how does one even realize it’s time to leave? Apparently, in my case, the only way to fully process my situation was to have a full-blown nervous breakdown. Not a quiet, dignified, cinematic sort of breakdown, where one stares out a rainy window while a melancholy French ballad plays. No, I’m talking about the kind of breakdown that makes bystanders question whether an exorcism is required. A breakdown so intense it felt like I was being personally unplugged from The Matrix, except instead of escaping to a world of gritty rebellion, I was alone in my apartment, crying myself to sleep, finally admitting to my cat that yes, Goodman, you knew all along.
A breakdown where time ceased to exist, and I started narrating my own suffering out loud like a film noir protagonist who had just been double-crossed in an alley. "So this is it," I muttered to no one. "This is how love dies - not with a bang, but with a whimper... and the slow, unhinged realization that I have been dating a man who owns more protein powder than intellect. I got so clinically insane, to the point of saying “I do". Shoot me.
The Royal Tenenbaums (2001)
A moment of silence
Let us take a moment to reflect on the good times. The laughter. The deep conversations. The late-night philosophical debates.
Wait - sorry, that must be someone else’s relationship.
Let us take a moment to reflect on My relationship: the awkward silences when I made a joke he didn’t get, the time he earnestly told me The Lord of the Rings was ‘arthouse cinema’, unironically, and the moment I realized that, despite dressing like a rock star, he had a lack of musical knowledge that made my soul die a thousand deaths. His only real musical experience was playing Wonderwall badly at a house party in 2008.
Then there was the sex. At first, it was exciting. He had the physical presence of a Greek god - tall, muscled, bearded, draped in that black hat like an extra from a Johnny Depp fever dream. The kind of man who looked like he could break a bedframe just by breathing in my direction but, in reality, had the stamina of a tax accountant in his late 60s attempting hot yoga for the first time. A man whose initial enthusiasm flickered out so fast I half-expected tech support to show up and try turning him off and on again. Eventually, the grand spectacle fizzled out completely, leaving behind a full year of celibacy and the creeping suspicion that I had somehow been unknowingly drafted into a monastic order.
Harold and Maude (1971)
That hat was always there, even when nothing else was. Even when the passion fizzled, when the silences stretched longer, when I realized I was alone even when he was in the room - still, the hat remained. A cruel reminder that I had not, in fact, fallen for a man, but for an aesthetic. A well-dressed mannequin with emotional issues... A symbol of everything I had projected onto him, a cruel reminder that I had fallen in love with an accessory.
But of course, there were other signs. His infamous outbursts of rage - the fact that he’d rather throw an object across the room and physically threaten me out of nowhere than sit down and have an actual discussion. Ah, the good times.
And then, there was the family. His bananas failed painter father, who lived like a hobo in an apartment that looked like a Trainspotting deleted scene. His blonde, big-boobed sister who gaslit me so thoroughly I started doubting my own name. And, of course, the younger half-sister - the prodigal heir - who launched an actual Eastern European coup to steal her father’s ‘estate’, got kicked out, then casually returned, as if past treason could be shrugged off like a parking ticket. The Spartan-looking warrior couldn’t stand up for me, or himself - ever.
Beetlejuice (1988)
Which, philosophically speaking, brings us to another question: at what point does a relationship stop being a relationship and become a hostage situation where you’re both too polite to acknowledge the kidnapping? Does one become a monk? Adopt a hobby? Start a side hustle? At what point does one’s love life resemble an avant-garde French film - long, confusing, filled with strange silences, and featuring a man who looks good in a hat but ultimately makes no sense?
Or worse - does it become a Kafkaesque nightmare where every conversation is a surrealist exercise in miscommunication, every silence an echo of an emotional void so profound it could be studied by theoretical physicists? Did I date a man, or did I unknowingly participate in a live-action adaptation of an absurdist Russian play where all the dialogue is meaningless and the audience leaves confused and vaguely unsettled?
And the greatest irony of all? This was a man I would normally avoid at a party. You know the type - the guy who dramatically leans against a wall, gazing into the distance like he’s waiting for a long-lost lover who never arrives, wearing the same black hat indoors like it’s part of his skull. The kind of man I’d normally dodge like an airborne disease. And yet, somehow, I ended up marrying him. Shoot me. No, really, take the shot.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Final Words
I turn away from this grave, my veil fluttering in the wind (or perhaps it’s just my own sense of relief) and I leave with one burning question: What kind of twisted self-sabotage was this? Was I under some kind of romantic hypnosis? What kind of parasite took over my brain? Maybe I created reality TV in a past life, and this was the universe’s way of making me live inside it. Or was I simply the biggest idiot to ever walk the Earth?
And as I step away, the moral of the story is clear - never, under any circumstances, fall in love with a piece of clothing. Love is fleeting, but regret comes in wearable form. Style is a powerful illusion, a magician’s trick, and I, like a fool, fell for the top hat instead of checking if there was a rabbit underneath.
RIP, Black Hat
