Folks, for those of you who may know the heartache (read: the loss of easy sex and sometimes a free dinner) of breaking up with a boyfriend/girlfriend/insane admirer who used to email how much they wished you would come back to write a little, this one was written for you. For those who have never bothered to wonder why SexyPanties08 doesn’t respond to your catcall anymore, this one is not for you. Feel free to stick around anyway; you might find the grammar and spelling errors humorous.
I don’t know how all of you readers out there met your significant other, why you think Jimmy Dean is the bestest breakfast sausage, or how you could just munch on Sarah Lee’s cookies all day long, but I do know that if you found this link, somebody said it’s over.
And your ex sent it to you.
I am past the stage where all thoughts revolve around wanting her/him to call, say s/he is sorry, and take back the awful, but truthful things s/he said. Now, now. Before you try to use your weird, hippie logic on me and argue that I can’t possibly know what I’m talking about, know that you are right. While I have no idea about the magic you two share when you watch the football game/baseball game/any sport really/Aqua Teen Hunger Force or any other show on Adult Swim/political debates while the other gazes at the television, wishing that for one night, just one night, the two of you had something better to do than waste away on a couch, I do know that everyone has gone through this and that’s why none of your friends care.
But Gina, s/he loves Lucy, Daughter of the Undead Figure Skating. If s/he didn’t, why don’t they just change the channel? Besides sometimes s/he gets so hot—
That they sex you up during the commercials? They’re not hot and bothered; they’re bored and a little horny. Haven’t you ever noticed that the person starting the sexy process of destroying the couch always looks away from the TV? Face the facts, you and your boyfriend/girlfriend/admirer, who has broken more restraining orders than federal courts will allow, are through. The butterflies in her/his tummy have been cured with the almighty power of maximum strength Pepto-Bismol and someone else’s very caring hands.
But it’s okay. We can get through this. Look, it is safe to say that I am on the opposite sides of both the sane and whatever-is-considered normal spectrums, but even I have gotten past the stage where it seems like all thoughts revolve around wanting her/him to call, to say s/he is sorry, and to take back the awful, but truthful things s/he said. I’m even past the revenge state of mind, for the most part. I don’t think about how I wish s/he would get the clap from the slut s/he raped with her/his face because s/he felt lonely, or how s/he should just hurry up and start dating so I don’t feel so guilty about flirting with my superior even though I know she already has a girlfriend who would deep-fry me then serve me with extra gravy and biscuits if she knew what people around the water cooler were saying.
But I am completely over that. Really. I no longer spend my precious shower thoughts on unsatisfying ways for her/him to meet her/his demise; shower time is for reviewing the compliments one receives from various lady and gentlemen callers. Compliments like "lovely young lady," "your name just oozes sexiness," and "that ass is begging to be spanked." Shower time is also great for remembering the smell of that nice young man’s cologne. (Mmmm, Curve Crush…such a sexy smell…)
The first step is the first step towards any recovery: admission ($24.99 for those under 12, $34.99 for those 13 and older. Everyone pays kid’s price with the purchase of a combo meal for a limited time only).
Go on, admit that it is completely and utterly over. You are not "going through a rough patch." You are not on a break. You don’t even have a chance if the Large Hadron Collider creates a black hole large enough to consume the planet but slow enough to let everyone have one last hurrah before we become part of the cancer slowly killing the universe.
Don’t worry, I’ll wait.
Stings like someone just came in your eye, doesn’t it?