I was just instructing poor Brenda on the precise angle for dusting the Ming vase – a task she performs with all the grace of a particularly disgruntled rhinoceros – when the wireless blared about the latest triumph of human ingenuity: the copyrighting of flirtation itself. One had always assumed that the delicate, if increasingly clumsy, dance of human attraction remained, at its core, a spontaneous, if often misguided, endeavor. A realm where even the most predictable outcomes still carried the faint perfume of individual idiocy. But no, it seems even this last bastion of human unpredictability has been neatly cataloged, codified, and, most importantly, copyrighted.

The consortium of esteemed publishing houses has seen fit to acquire global intellectual property rights to "The Hook Up," "The Friend Zone," and "The Game Plan." Oh, the profound depths of modern romance, reduced to three convenient, marketable labels. One almost misses the days of "courting" or "a dalliance," which at least carried a whiff of effort and perhaps a genuine, rather than contractually obligated, blush. These, we are told, are the "primary archetypes of initial romantic entanglement." Such sterile language for something so inherently messy. Soon, one assumes, aspiring romantics will be required to consult a licensed textbook before attempting even the most rudimentary of flirtations. Imagine the pre-nuptial agreements not just for assets, but for the very tropes employed during courtship. "I, the undersigned, agree that my use of 'The Friend Zone' was purely coincidental and not an attempt to circumvent intellectual property rights," it might read.

The grand vision, it seems, is to "standardize and monetize" courtship. To ensure that no aspiring suitor, no hopeful singleton, deviates from the pre-approved narrative arc. Presumably, there will be licensing fees for particularly effective eyebrow raises or the timely deployment of a well-placed compliment. Industry analysts, predictably, have hailed this move as "strategic." One can practically hear the champagne corks popping in London, as if they've just discovered a cure for ennui, rather than simply commodified its most predictable symptoms.

Soon, perhaps, we'll need to purchase a permit for a lingering glance or subscribe to a "Platinum Entanglement Package" to ensure our romantic endeavors align with corporate strategy. How terribly romantic. It seems the only thing left to patent is the sigh of resignation itself.

One awaits the mandatory royalty payments for unrequited affection.