Thursday, November 10, 2011

how to survive a break-up.

last night i let one of my ladyfriends look at my okcupid profile. and i know what a huge mistake that is, letting someone who knows me see what a motherfucking jackass i am when it comes to advertising my vagina on the old computer machine. but rachel just had her heart ripped out of her chest and stomped on, and i felt like it was my sisterly duty to let that sad-ass bitch make fun of the way i solicit internet penis. curled up in her pajamas and settled on her couch underneath a pile of sadblankets, macbook warming her lap, half-empty diet coke can at her side, i told that jerk my screen name and sat back to enjoy the steak jibaritos we'd just ordered from borinquen. ten seconds later that asshole BURST OUT LAUGHING. not just an appreciative chuckle, mind you, a full-on belly laugh that made me flush with shame. there were brief periods of silence punctuated by ACTUAL LOLing, and as i cringed and prayed for instant death, rachel kept saying "it's only funny because i know you," as if that were some sort of motherfucking reassurance. pffft. it wasn't "you're so charming and adorable and witty!" laughter, because my dating profile really is some of my least hilarious goddamned work, it was like, "YOU DUMB BITCH, THIS IS WHY YOUR INBOX IS EMPTY." both of them, zing. omfg, i was immediately filled with self-loathing at my "braggy" and unintentionally funny profile. i'm just going to change that shit to "millionaire, sex on the first date, titties." i'll let you know how it goes.

i have only had two real break-ups in my life, and only one of them was crazy hard to get over. i mean hard, like, if i ran into him on the street tomorrow it might make my stomach hurt. hard because he had a shaving kit at my place and we had a joint costco membership and i left my favorite pair of new balances in his car hard. and that shit ended back when myspace was still popular. ie, FOREVER AGO FACEBOOK OMG LOL, yet sometimes it still nags at me. but anyway, i've had a shit-ton of the kinds of relationships that do the most immediate crushing damage: that two days/two weeks/two months shit when you CANNOT FUCKING BELIEVE that this thing that seemed so promising a week ago is fucking over already. because it's one thing when a person has grown tired of you after a few years, or you realize that your long-term goals don't intersect; that shit is fucking manageable. what's inexplicable is when some dude you hit it off with who SEEMS TOTALLY AWESOME and wants to HANG OUT WITH YOU ALL THE TIME and really seems to like HAVING SEX WITH YOU and insists upon MEETING YOUR FRIENDS and texts you FIVE TIMES A DAY, which in girltexts is like 99 times a day, all of a sudden drops off the face of the motherfucking earth. or he doesn't want to hang out at normal times anymore, he just wants to "drop by" after that rock show you heard about that he didn't even ask if you wanted to go to. or he acts irritated if you text him "hey, how are you?" ONE TIME in THREE DAYS. which, if he really knew you, he would know is your showing admirable restraint.

until, inevitably, it winds down and peters out. like an old candle or something. and the end of these relationships can go one of two ways: you are either like me (most of the time) and can smell this shitstorm coming a mile away so you just pack up the little emotional investment you've made and file it away in your brain's asshole library before you leave a toothbrush at his place; or you are like rachel (and like me too, sometimes) and try to save this sinking ship despite the fact that everything he's doing is making you feel SO FUCKING BAD and he's blowing you off and lying to you and is too much of a pussy to say "stop calling me," so he lets you hang yourself and feel like garbage until someone new comes along which might not happen for a really long time and then you're stuck in this shitty place for longer than you deserve to be. and that sucks the biggest suck that ever sucked.

so i've come up with what is basically a foolproof method to get myself over some piece of shit asshole who tricked me into thinking he liked me (and maybe he did for five minutes but WHATEVER) and really did seem like someone i might want to let see me in my meat shirt and my inside pants. this list is written down, IN PEN, and magnetized to my refrigerator. it's splattered with salsa, of course, because i'm a slob and i wrote it in goddamned 2004, but it's posted up there and i'm going to share it because bitches need to fucking help each other. IT'S SO HARD OUT HERE. so imma help you deal with being dumped LIKE A BOSS. you can copy and paste this shit and put it wherever you'll see it the most. for me, it's the place i keep my ice cream and beer.

1 you get one day to fucking hate yourself. but THAT'S IT, bitch. ONE MOTHERFUCKING DAY. what the fuck is it about being dumped that makes us deify the lame-o dude who basically spread his ass cheeks open and spewed diarrhea all over our future with him? every single time some asshole is like, "thank you but NO," i get sad that someone that smart (or nice or handsome or interesting, whatevs) no longer wants to be involved with me. forget that he wore pink dress shirts to dinner and couldn't pronounce the name of that fancy vodka he ordered, he was SO GREAT and i am OBVIOUSLY NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO BE WITH HIM. i forget every flaw, every weird hang-up, every single thing he did that made me think, "holy fucking shit, i should've never agreed to be exclusive with this idiot," and start beating myself up about how awful and horrible and terrible and unloveable i am. and i know, you girls are all the worst person in the world, too.

you don't get anything right, you're not pretty enough, you could be smarter, you should know more about foreign policy, and you should have at least two favorite shows on NPR. why are you so fat? and why do you watch so many terrible television shows? why do you have a subscription to glamour magazine?! YOU'RE THIRTY-SEVEN. why don't you have more than one set of sheets? why are your mattress and box spring on the floor? how come you only have cereal and peanut butter in your cupboard? what do you even put on the cereal, tap water?! i live in an apartment the size of a normal person's bathroom. jesus, i am SO BROKE. no one likes me. even my friends are just faking it. i totally fail at everything. i'm not funny. i'm not sexy. i ruin everything. i can't make pancakes. i always chip my manicure five minutes after it dries. my feet are ugly. i can't play tennis. i snore. i'm the WORST PERSON ON EARTH blah blah blah sad blah.

we all do it, we all rake ourselves over the mental coals trying to find an explanation for why some talking gorilla with the IQ of a houseplant doesn't want to stick his dick in us anymore. and it's totally cool. but you only get one day to be mean to yourself. i'm not kidding. you can be as sad as you want for as long as you need to, but the self-hate stops after one goddamned day. 24 hours to be the fattest stinkiest dumbest girl in the world, then it's on to remembering how that motherfucker chewed with his mouth open and didn't know that the "s" in illinois is silent. what a moron.

2 cut off all communication. i've been fortunate not to have been shit on too badly after the advent of the facebooks and the twitter machine, because if the agony that is stalking my online crushes is any goddamned indication, breaking up in the modern era is ABSOLUTELY TERRIBLE. while i've been blatantly stood up at least three or four times in my life, i've never been stood up and had the pleasure of dragging myself home from whatever bar in which he'd abandoned me to cry in my beer to see that while i'd been texting him: "are you nearby?" "how many minutes?" "you remember where the bar is?" "do you need cab fare?" "are you hurt?" "did you get out of work late?" "should i meet you at your place?" "you know we had plans tonight, right?" "just tell me if you're not coming." "seriously, i've been here for an hour." "why are you doing this to me?" "DO YOU EVEN LIKE ME ANYMORE?!" in rapid succession for forty-five minutes while burning with shame because everyone in the restaurant can tell i'm being stood up, OBVIOUSLY. only to find out from my newsfeed that THIS MOTHERFUCKER HAS BEEN UPDATING HIS STATUS AND POSTING PICTURES OF HIS DINNER ALL GODDAMNED NIGHT. how humiliating. i would throw my fucking computer through a wall if that ever happens to me. how can you get dumped with facebook in your life?! holy mother of god all of the picture deleting and relationship status changing! that shit is devastating.

that's why you have to delete that dude. don't torment yourself trying to figure out who these adorable commenting ass bitches are. is he fucking them? probably. now UNFRIEND HIS ASS. and unfollow his fucking twitter, too. all he does is post twitpics of his shitty tattoos and literary quotes from books he's never read, and are you really going to glean any useful  information from that? besides, it's going to take SO LONG to click on all this asshole's @messages and try to figure out whether or not those women are his girlfriend. or if he's referring to you in some cryptic way. painful confession that i am willing to share in the hopes that you'll learn a valuable lesson from it: this musician dude i had a crush on last year was like, "facebook is old news, girl. I TWEET," and even though i didn't even understand how twitter worked at the time (i still don't; WHAT THE FUCK IS "TRENDING?!" welp) i followed him and he followed me and i spent two weeks reading all of his totally fucking stupid tweets (he's one of those jerkbags who tweets from the toilet, OMG) and trying to decipher the veiled sexual innuendo in them to several of his female followers. i was like a goddamned crazy person, trying to translate 160 characters of code words and inside jokes written by a dude that i 1 didn't know, to women he was 2 probably fucking. that shit's insane. needless to say, my twatter no longer follows his tweets.

the hardest, i know, is THAT GODDAMNED TELEPHONE. but you have to do it. i erase a dude's number as soon as three days lapse with no word from him. that's the beauty of cell phones: no one memorizes a goddamned thing anymore. because even though you can recollect with crystal clarity your childhood digits, you have no idea what the fuck that dude you've been banging's number is. and that's amazing! so delete that shit! and get the fuck out of here with that, "I'M SAVING IT JUST IN CASE HE CALLS SO I KNOW WHO IT IS AND I WON'T ANSWER IT." listen whore, your bill collector-dodging ass doesn't answer any numbers it doesn't know, and chances are you can figure out either from the context of his text or the voice on your voicemail who the fuck just called you. don't play with me, DELETE IT. here's what i told rachel, and i'm telling it to you because i love you: from the minute i give some dude my number i start thinking of his phone as a "sadcatcher." it's like a dreamcatcher, but instead of dreams that blackberry of his is storing all of your sad, miserable, pleading, embarrassing messages. all of the tear-soaked voicemails you left, all of the drunk texts you sent, all of the nineteen calls you placed in one night and, i hate to break it to you, HE IS SHOWING THOSE TO PEOPLE. nothing is a secret, and there's no break-up code that says he has to dutifully delete any of your incriminating evidence out of respect for what you lovebirds had that never was. that sadcatcher is an archive of all the ways you embarrassed yourself when he stopped calling you, you fucking jackass. my ego is too massive to let some random dude walk around knowing how sad he made me and how fucked up i was over him, so i make it a habit to only text directions and meetup times. fuck if he gets to dump me AND laugh at my, "is this really how you want to end this?!" harbingers of relationship doom. i have the heart of a goddamned lion. that sappy shit is for jerks.

3 throw his goddamned shit out. you will NEVER GET OVER IT if you keep sleeping with that dirty t-shirt he mistakenly left in your bathroom. just get it out of your apartment. TODAY. you don't need it and he is NEVER COMING BACK FOR IT. again, i know the reason you're really hanging on to that shit. "it's so comfortable" and you "love sleeping in it?" bitch, that's the reason you still cry yourself to sleep every night. TOSS THAT MOTHERFUCKER OUT SO YOU CAN MOVE ON. and i know, you really want those pajamas and the reading glasses you "accidentally" left at his place. sorry again, babydoll, those things are now casualties of war. we all know why you did it, it's the same reason we all do it. 1 so he'll be reminded of his awesome new girlfriend 2 so any girls he has over will be intimidated by the presence of those supercute pajamas and hip glasses his awesome new girlfriend wears (omg she has such good taste why are you cheating on her?!) and 3 so you have ONE MORE GODDAMNED REASON to try to get into his apartment once he falls off the face of the earth. besides, we all know you would never leave your GOOD shit in some dude's rank, dirty house. so stop that. and burn his boxers in the dumpster behind your building.

4 distract yourself. you aren't ready to date anyone yet, because you're damaged and fucked up. and you probably should get an STD screen. but there are books you can read. seriously, SO MANY BOOKS came out while you were in relationshangri-la. also, your dvr is full and there are nine netflix envelopes in that stack of mail you haven't tended to since you met him. i bet you haven't seen your fucking friends in a while, SO CALL THEM. catch up on celebrity gossip, re-join that yoga class you paid for but never use, organize your cutlery, change all your furniture around, go see a play, eat at all the restaurants he wouldn't go to because he's gluten-free or whatever. i make a concerted effort to schedule something every day. even if it's a little something, like "go get magazines." go out and do something, ANYTHING. i promise you, if you leave your house and go to work then don't go home until it's time to collapse in bed you will feel better. or you'll at least be too fucking tired to feel bad.

5 enlist the help of your friends. this one is self-explanatory: it is my job, AS YOUR FRIEND, to feed you and hang out with you and listen to you and keep you sane as you deal with that terrible flood of horrible feelings that tsunamis your soul after someone rejects you, so MAKE ME DO MY FUCKING JOB. i'm not just here to hold your hair back when you vomit and tell you how amazing you look in those pants, i'm also available to listen to you tell the same story four hundred times and to try to figure out the meaning of his last email. because last night i wanted to snuggle up in my bed amid the drone of my humidifiers and scare myself shitless watching "american horror story," but instead i traveled eight stops past where i live before braving the indignity of the bus in the freezing cold in FINGERLESS GLOVES (i'm so fucking stupid) to go to rachel's house and talk shit about the pathological liar who wouldn't return the belongings she'd left at his place and was wearing a fruity INSIDE SCARF the one time i'd met him. I GOT HOME AT FUCKING MIDNIGHT, PEOPLE. ON A GODDAMNED WORK NIGHT. if that isn't love, i don't know what is. and i'd do it again, because that bitch is my motherfucking friend. it's in the contract.

6 FLIP THE SCRIPT. i'm not a silver lining kind of broad. in general, i'm totally fucking negative. unless there's a kitten around. that said, the thing i am the best at out of all of these things is making lemonade out of a relationship lemon. well, i always remain thoroughly convinced that i am going to die alone in my apartment with a regenerated hymen, but i'm really fucking good at remembering all the things that suck about a dude and using them as consolation prizes when he BLINDSIDES ME WITH THE DUMP. for every endearing little drop of charm there is a giant glaring fault just waiting for me to embellish it before regaling all of my friends with its glory. repeat those flaws on a continuous loop, lovers. seriously, when i'm feeling like a gross little man-repelling troll all i have to think is ILLINOIZE and i dissolve into a fit of giggles. men are fucking stupid. and often repulsive. guaranteed that dude you're so goddamned sad about bleaches his hair or cuts the crusts off his sandwiches or WEARS A MOTHERFUCKING SCARF IN A BAR. i don't need my ex-asshole and you don't need your ex-asshole, either. and if you feel like you do just call me and i'll come sit on your couch and eat jibaritos while you cry laughing at me for telling the internet that "i have the best goddamned jokes."

that bitch hurt my motherfucking feelings. oh well, rachel dated a dude who wears an inside scarf. so we're even. see, i told you i'm good at the lemonade.