In re-reading a lot of my posts, I tend to write heavily about first dates. Not so much second ones, or third ones, or gulp, break ups. And as I’m sure everyone will agree- that’s mostly because break ups SUCK. Like, suck hard. Perhaps I’m fortunate because I only had one really awful break up that made me a complete bucket of crazy… but I survived it. I came through the other end with only a slightly alarming drinking problem.
But- because I’m a good person and I have not much else to write about, I’m going to go ahead and tell you how I was able to move on. Because that shit is hard. And sometimes you need a tore-up 23 year old girl with a laptop to tell you how life works. It’s cool.
1. Get you some friends. Good ones. The last thing a broken hearted, melodramatic girl needs are girls who give shitty advice or just judge you as you cry into your
bottle glass of wine. Recruit the girls who bring you more bottles of wine to be your support system, not the judgy ones.
2. Leave it be. Just don’t. I know, you think you have something really important to say… If only you had told him that one thought you had! He would totally still be in love with you! …Only, he wouldn’t. So when you want to pick up the phone/email/blog/twitter (technology is not your friend), punch yourself or something. Or go back to the bottle of wine. But do NOT make contact. Just keep reminding yourself: out of sight, out of mind. Then repeat.
3. On the opposite end of #2, don’t let him jerk you around. They don’t do that because they are having genuine second thoughts, they do that because they are genuinely terrified of being alone. I’m sure you’re lovely, but if he wanted you, he’d be with you.
4. Watch He’s Just Not That Into You and cry for a little while.
5. Cry some more. I don’t really get (or like) the girls who say, “I just got over him. I turned off my emotions and I’m over it.” No you’re not you freak of nature! You’re dying on the inside. Stop pretending like your heart works better than mine. At the risk of suppressing all those emotions and having them burst out at the worst possible moment and embarrassing the bananas out of you- feel what you have to feel. Embrace the emotion, accept it, let it go.
6. Don’t get fat. Tempting, I know. But that “Nobody will ever love me again and I’m awful and oh my god I’m just going to wear these pajamas until I die of loneliness” is not a good plan. Again, call your friend and drink.
7. But don’t drink too much! This will make you fat. And maybe make you cry… okay, it’s totally gonna make you cry and your beer belly will be laughing at you and you’ll just want to die all over again. So balance the booze with something that makes you feel good about yourself.
8. People LOVE that saying “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new.” That might work. But I think it just makes you extra crazy, and a whole lotta desperate and maybe an HIV patient. Triple threat, and I promise, you will only be distracted but not for very long.
9. Keep going… Just keep doing what you do. Don’t let a break up tell you anything about yourself except that you are ONE step closer to finding the right guy. So that’s exciting, in a bitter sweet way.
10. Have faith that you will, one day, be able to see him from across a patio and say to yourself, “oh, there’s the guy who broke my heart so many months ago.” And then that thought will be swiftly followed by, “Wait… am I… okay?”
And you will be.
If I were to list my hobbies they would be: drinking wine, reading lots of books at one time, good music, blogging, politics, and organizing my closet in times of stress. But you know what I really love doing? crushing. I forgot how much I missed those school-girl-meets-hot-older-guy and then shamelessly draws hearts around his name times. The harmless “what-ifs” that kind of go drifting through your head when you’re trying to write a press release at work. That’s a good time, friends.
Did the lack of anger in that first paragraph throw you way off? Me too. Just re-read it. Both shocked and proud of myself.
He’s a lawyer. I know. Awesome. And he’s kind and funny and so smart that I proof-read my text messages like 4 times before sending… which is actually pretty pathetic. And bla bla bla we should get married and then he can run for President and I will be First Lady except I won’t be annoying because I don’t care if your kid is fat, so long as they don’t eat my kid. (On a related note, that would be even MORE fitting becuase if I’m FLOTUS then I don’t ever have to learn to cook because they have got to have like a shit ton of cooks at the White House, right?)
Someone needs to look into that for me, thank you.
Like I said though, harmless. I have yet to doodle my name + his name = LUV4EVA on my post-its though so at least I’m behaving myself and keeping
all most my crazy behind closed doors. The only (major) downside would be the fact that he has admitted at least three times that he doesn’t date girls in politics. Sadly, I am both a girl and a girl in politics. So maybe he missed one of those two facts? What he obviously misses about me is that I am practically designed for candidate-wifehood. He wants to run for office. I like politics and the high-schoolesque games that accompany them. I am also small and like to dress up and can chat up old people whenever the time calls. Sometimes I can even keep myself from cursing for a whole 5 minutes straight! Psht. Future POTUS doesn’t know what he’s missing. (ooooh… Good name for him. President).
Clearly, I am in uncharted waters. Normally I can just bully boys into dating me until I realize how much I dislike them, or let them abandon me. This time though… I am afraid I have met someone to0 clever to be bullied. Which is both intriguing and unnerving.
But if we have learned nothing about me, it is that I tend to take this things to the absolute limit. So if he ends up liking me back (awwwww) then I will one day be FLOTUS, and none of you can EVER mention this blog. If he doesn’t, we will commence angry-girl blogging promptly and wage wars on all lawyers and law school students and anything even sort of affiliated with the law.
Alright kids, we are now commencing “Operation Stop Writing Emo Shit In The Middle Of The Night And Then Deleting It The Next Day Because It Was Not Only Poorly Written But Also Melodramatic.” Related: maybe posting without drinking wine would help… we’ll do a little research and I’ll get back to you.
Seriously, that emo girl I mentioned before that lives inside of me and writes emotionally charged emails/letters apparently finds her second-wind any time after midnight during the work week. She also has a penchant for white wine and emotional eating of Chipotle (cough, numerous times a week, cough). She’s fat. And ugly. And I’m going to forget that she dwells inside and write non-suicidal stuff for a little while. You’re welcome, all 2 of my loyal readers.
I’ve had some lovely conversations over the past 48 hours, and I think they deserve a little recognition… I also have nothing to write that isn’t pitiful, so we don’t have a lot of inspiring material. Eh.
Conversation between my boss, my coworker and myself:
Boss: No way, if the zombie apocolypse does occur, I am totally getting a shotgun.
Coworker: Eh, I like swords, I think I’d use a sword.
Me: You both are idiots, and will die first in the zombie apocolypse. First, a shotgun? What the fuck, they’re already dead. You’ll just give them a puncture wound before they eat you alive. And second, who the hell are you? Harry Potter? Swords? Can you even use a sword?
Coworker: Harry Potter had a wand. Not a sword. God you’re worthless.
Me: Shut up. Machetes all the way. Not only is it bad ass, but I can dismember the zombies and run away. Win, and win. Also, that’s cardio. Triple win.
This is alarming for a number of reasons. Mostly because at 10 in the morning, my office should have better things to do than contemplate the numerous ways of self-defense should reality ever start to resemble a bad 2008 movie. The life of a legislative staffer, ladies and gentlemen. Your tax payer dollars at work- finding new ways for me and my fellow public employees to reach new levels of (creative) mediocrity.
Conversation on Monday morning in my office:
Coworker: Where you watching the Superbowl?
Me: I make it an annual tradition not to. Men seem to really enjoy my disregard for sports… wait, who’s playing?
Coworker: Steelers and Packers.
Me: Hell yes. Packers.
Me: I dig those people wearing cheese blocks on their heads.
Boss: It is no longer a mystery why you are single. Well, it never really was… but now I think you’re just trying to deflect men.
Me: I’m still baffled by the lack of people in love with me. So that makes one of us.
No explanation necessary.
Conversation preceding the Superbowl one via text with Muscles:
Muscles: So I heard that you have had sex with more than three people. You told me three. You lied? It’s none of my business, but come on.
Me: (After debating how worth it it would be to even respond) Yeah… No good comes from a guy hearing a real number. I shouldn’t have lied, I apologize
Muscles: You’re a big person for being honest. Want to see No Strings Attached with me this weekend?
Hm. Cruel joke? I don’t want to see that stupid movie, and if you read my blog (or if you don’t, more likely, then you can read about my pre-emptive hatred of this movie here)- you know how I feel about it, but whatever. And is he trying to send me a subliminal message? And every girl lies about their “number,” so don’t you judge me. Actually, this topic is a whoooole other blog post, and one that I will save for when my mom stops being one of the two loyal readers (hi, mom!).
Conversation with D, the roomie:
D: You peaked in middle school, I peaked five years ago. That’s life. But you’re mature and succesful, so it doesn’t matter.
Me: Wait, is that a compliment?
Me: You’re awful at compliments. You’re saying I peaked a decade ago? I’ve got plenty of decades left, and you’re saying they’re all downhill from here?
That’s just depressing. And I didn’t peak in high school, I just discovered how much men loved mean women. (I may or may not have inspired that retarded book Men Love Bitches… but I don’t know because I didn’t read it). Now, I am still mean, but older men seem to not love bitches at this age… or they have noticed the
25 10 lbs I’ve gained since middle school. They love bimbos who yell along to a Ke$ha song blaring in the club while spilling their Red Bull/Vodka all over me. Or they go to those online dating sites and find someone there so they can continue on their road of blissful ignorance and bullshit existence… There I go, making absolutely NO reference to people I may have dated recently who definitely didn’t stomp all over my heart and add to my already sizeable self-esteem issues. Nope. Not at all autobiographical that last little vent.
I’d write more but I have to wash my hair since I
haven’t in a long time have a date tomorrow night with an athlete turned local lobbyist… Which sounds like a totally trust-worthy kind of guy, right?