Monday, September 26, 2005

99 Problems….AKA Get out your tiny violins ‘cause I’m going to talk about my breakup now…..

It’s a good thing I’m a devout cynic who thinks nothing ever really works out, because that way, when nothing ever really fucking works out, I’m not too disappointed. Confused? Yes. Unable to consume anything but Big Macs and Bourbon? Certainly. But disappointed? Not so much.

Although, I’m not quite certain how “I feeeeeel” (this should be read in a whiny self-indulgent tone) because I’m a little…well…I’m not sure what to call it. It’s not numb per se, it’s more like when you stub your toe and it takes a few seconds to get to your brain and produce hideous pain. You get a moment to reflect, “Shit- that’s gonna hurt” before it actually sets in. I’ve been told getting kicked in the balls is sort of like this, but since I can’t speak to that particular experience, I’ll just say I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m feeling. That, and a little bit drunk.

I’m sort of new to all this, as I’ve only had two real breakups in my life and one was very amicable and the other took close to five years to complete (Don’t ask). But, since nothing ever really works out I thought I’d use this time to develop a blueprint template for post-relationship behavior. It’s sort of a work in progress and will be updated as the days go on. OK! Let the healing begin.

Hours 1 - 48
Begin to consume alcohol immediately. If you’re going to cry or do any dumb shit like that do it now and be done with it. No one likes a crying drunk and if you have to pick between crying and drinking well, we all know where I stand on that. Because hey- nothing says “I’m over it” like standing on top of a bar with beer dripping down your arm while you lead the crowd in a stirring rendition of “All By Myself”.

Hours 48 – 72
Now’s the time for finger pointing and childish behavior. No matter who’s fault it was, even if your committing some heinous crime against humanity is what caused the break-up, do not, I repeat DO NOT blame yourself or take any responsibility whatsoever. “Owning Up” comes later…preferably right before you black out. Your friends should take this opportunity to tell you how much they didn’t like the departed partner, that you can do better, and, that no, you will not die alone only to have your corpse discovered eight days later after your cat has eaten most of your face.

Hours 72 – 96
This is sort of like after shiva, when the bagel & lox has been stored away and the loud chewing but well meaning crowd of mourners has gone, when the reality of the situation sets in. This is the worst part and I can only suggest that as soon as reality pokes you in the eye you switch from beer back to Bourbon. You have to come to terms with the fact that the mini-vacation you were planning ain’t gonna happen, that those visions of walking arm and arm in the park looking at leaves ARE as icky and gag-inducing as you once thought, and that drinking alone in your apartment and throwing beer caps at the mouse who is your only living companion does indeed constitute a rockin’ Saturday night. Ugh…..fuck reality. Fuck it in its fucking ass. Hmmmm, perhaps a little less Bourbon might be in order.

That’s really all I’ve got right now. Any and all suggestions on how to keep the healing party going would be much appreciated. Ok- if anybody needs me I’ll be the one in the corner sipping a bottle of room temperature Bourbon and making hissing noise at my cat to keep it away from my face. Over and out.
Posted by LMM14_1 :: 11:30 AM :: 1 Comments:

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