What's up suckers?
It's summer time, the air is hot, the beers are cold and the desperation is thick in the air. You know what that means?
It's break up season. Yeah, you heard me. 'Tis the season for people to take one look at their significant other and decide "yeah, I should probably try my luck elsewhere". It's just the truth heartbreak kids. I'm not going to lie to you. But fear not, for I have a tale of hope that will surely help you get through this rough time by thinking "at least I never sunk that low."
Even I, the all mighty dating master gets kicked in the gonads by love once in a while and when I do it's often a gruesome and dragged out event. Much like the Justin Bieber movie. But I digress.
Now, people often handle break ups in one of two ways. Either, you spend a week at home dealing with the shitty pain, the tears, the exchanging of stuff, the adele cd and once that week is over you dust yourself off and move on. OR you choose the path that leads you into clubs 3 days later, drowning in boos, sleeping in your own filth, eating only ice cream and yoghurt covered raisins while crying randomly on public transit, in your house while watching Glee or Titanic and finally resorting to stalking your ex over Facebook just to Facebook chat him in hopes of salvaging the relationship and eventually ends in an intervention by your friends and a serious talking to by the police.
Now I'm not going to say either path is right. But I'm saying that I decided on the second one. Now this break-up happened several years ago now but I remember the details very foggily.
I had been dating this guy for over a year, we were going to get married, have babies, support him with my pay cheque that I would make after going to school and he would be free to live his dreams while I worked as a teacher most of the year and got an extra job in the summer. But I'm not bitter. Now I admit that we weren't the perfect match for each other. And by that I mean we had two completely differing views on pretty much every topic of importance to couples. But hey, we were going to work those out no problem. Not.
Now, I won't go into the gory details of how exactly we broke up but I can sum it up by saying that it involved me being drunk, him breaking it off on the phone and me having a complete crazy bitch yelling fest which included some real gems such as "I'LL KILL MYSELF IF YOU BREAK UP WITH ME!" and "YOU'RE A FUCKING ASSHOLE WHO DESERVES NOTHING!!!" And "I love you and want only the best for you, I would do anything to make it work." I could go on, but it wasn't my finest hour and I certainly regret confirming his beliefs in my physconess. It was a gruesome scene of tears and changed Facebook statuses. (by the way, I bet this paragraph made all the fellas want to jump at the chance to date me)
Anyways. I'm going to tell you what happened to me. I decided that I would sink myself into an episode of "wow this alcohol really makes things easier, and these yoghurt covered raisins are like eating my feelings". It wasn't pretty. Now I have to thank my friends for how wonderfully they reacted to these extremes. Instead of disowning me as a terrible person, they decided it would be good for me to get out. I think once they saw that I had begun knitting a "break-up scarf" while watching the old 21 Jump Street for 48 hours straight something needed to be done.
One friend, so sweet, invited me to go out with her, her boyfriend and one of his friends to a skeevy bar just to get me out, get drunk and forget the whole "I never loved you really" mess. I don't blame her for what happened next, I take full responsibility for my actions.
We decided to head out, I was sure nothing could go wrong. Nothing in my head said "hey, you're probably not ready for the emotional strain that clubs can place on one in your fragile state". We reached her boyfriends house and I tried to chat it up with the friend. Not very charming is all I can say. But we headed out anyways and I was hopeful that a good night of debauchery would erase my memory of this guy.
Not the case.
We started drinking and things were going...okay. I couldn't help but feel a little sad. We hit the dance floor to boogie away the blues. But this is where things get messy.
As my friend started to dance with her boyfriend, his friend took this as a sign that he and I should be dancing as well. Well I mean, for someone who could barely handle watching Johnny Depp fight teenage crime without weeping, it all became to much.
Right there, in front of him and all the dance floor, I broke down into sobs. I rushed away from the dance floor. I decided that crying in a corner made me look far less spazzy and proceeded to weep in a corner of the club. My friend did all she could to comfort me. But here I was, full on crying...in a club.
When I finally calmed down to only slightly teary, we tried to find the guys. Turns out the friend had been so offended by my display that he had promptly left and hid in his room and refused to speak to me.
And I wasn't even drunk. And it was only 12.
Moral of the Story:
Whatever you do, heartbreak and loud beats don't mix. Not even a little. Just stay at home and drown your sorrows with several cartons of Ben and Jerry's if I had a 1,000 flavours.
It's summer time, the air is hot, the beers are cold and the desperation is thick in the air. You know what that means?
It's break up season. Yeah, you heard me. 'Tis the season for people to take one look at their significant other and decide "yeah, I should probably try my luck elsewhere". It's just the truth heartbreak kids. I'm not going to lie to you. But fear not, for I have a tale of hope that will surely help you get through this rough time by thinking "at least I never sunk that low."
Even I, the all mighty dating master gets kicked in the gonads by love once in a while and when I do it's often a gruesome and dragged out event. Much like the Justin Bieber movie. But I digress.
Now, people often handle break ups in one of two ways. Either, you spend a week at home dealing with the shitty pain, the tears, the exchanging of stuff, the adele cd and once that week is over you dust yourself off and move on. OR you choose the path that leads you into clubs 3 days later, drowning in boos, sleeping in your own filth, eating only ice cream and yoghurt covered raisins while crying randomly on public transit, in your house while watching Glee or Titanic and finally resorting to stalking your ex over Facebook just to Facebook chat him in hopes of salvaging the relationship and eventually ends in an intervention by your friends and a serious talking to by the police.
Now I'm not going to say either path is right. But I'm saying that I decided on the second one. Now this break-up happened several years ago now but I remember the details very foggily.
I had been dating this guy for over a year, we were going to get married, have babies, support him with my pay cheque that I would make after going to school and he would be free to live his dreams while I worked as a teacher most of the year and got an extra job in the summer. But I'm not bitter. Now I admit that we weren't the perfect match for each other. And by that I mean we had two completely differing views on pretty much every topic of importance to couples. But hey, we were going to work those out no problem. Not.
Now, I won't go into the gory details of how exactly we broke up but I can sum it up by saying that it involved me being drunk, him breaking it off on the phone and me having a complete crazy bitch yelling fest which included some real gems such as "I'LL KILL MYSELF IF YOU BREAK UP WITH ME!" and "YOU'RE A FUCKING ASSHOLE WHO DESERVES NOTHING!!!" And "I love you and want only the best for you, I would do anything to make it work." I could go on, but it wasn't my finest hour and I certainly regret confirming his beliefs in my physconess. It was a gruesome scene of tears and changed Facebook statuses. (by the way, I bet this paragraph made all the fellas want to jump at the chance to date me)
Anyways. I'm going to tell you what happened to me. I decided that I would sink myself into an episode of "wow this alcohol really makes things easier, and these yoghurt covered raisins are like eating my feelings". It wasn't pretty. Now I have to thank my friends for how wonderfully they reacted to these extremes. Instead of disowning me as a terrible person, they decided it would be good for me to get out. I think once they saw that I had begun knitting a "break-up scarf" while watching the old 21 Jump Street for 48 hours straight something needed to be done.
One friend, so sweet, invited me to go out with her, her boyfriend and one of his friends to a skeevy bar just to get me out, get drunk and forget the whole "I never loved you really" mess. I don't blame her for what happened next, I take full responsibility for my actions.
We decided to head out, I was sure nothing could go wrong. Nothing in my head said "hey, you're probably not ready for the emotional strain that clubs can place on one in your fragile state". We reached her boyfriends house and I tried to chat it up with the friend. Not very charming is all I can say. But we headed out anyways and I was hopeful that a good night of debauchery would erase my memory of this guy.
Not the case.
We started drinking and things were going...okay. I couldn't help but feel a little sad. We hit the dance floor to boogie away the blues. But this is where things get messy.
As my friend started to dance with her boyfriend, his friend took this as a sign that he and I should be dancing as well. Well I mean, for someone who could barely handle watching Johnny Depp fight teenage crime without weeping, it all became to much.
Right there, in front of him and all the dance floor, I broke down into sobs. I rushed away from the dance floor. I decided that crying in a corner made me look far less spazzy and proceeded to weep in a corner of the club. My friend did all she could to comfort me. But here I was, full on crying...in a club.
When I finally calmed down to only slightly teary, we tried to find the guys. Turns out the friend had been so offended by my display that he had promptly left and hid in his room and refused to speak to me.
And I wasn't even drunk. And it was only 12.
Moral of the Story:
Whatever you do, heartbreak and loud beats don't mix. Not even a little. Just stay at home and drown your sorrows with several cartons of Ben and Jerry's if I had a 1,000 flavours.
