You’ve just ended a relationship.  Maybe it was their fault, perhaps it was yours.  Either way, it’s over.  And yet, feelings still linger.  Love, hate, horniness, a wide assortment of emotions.  All you want to do in the wake of this development is to be left the hell alone to wallow in self-pity and Oreo cookies. 

But your friends will have none of that and insist on taking you out to the bar, kicking or screaming if need be, to move on.  And while their hearts are in the right place, this evening is going to end badly.  Very badly. 

Here’s a breakdown of what you can expect to experience over the next several hours.

9 p.m.

Location of phone:  In your car.

What you’re drinking:  Beer.

It’s crowded in the bar tonight as your friends drag you in and place a beer in your hand.  Things start off fairly well—drinking, laughing, and making fun of your former flame.  In fact, you can barely remember their name.  You know what?  Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to come out tonight.  

10 p.m.

Location of phone:  It’s in your car, but honest to God, you think you can hear it ring from here.  You may need to go check that out.  You don’t want the battery to run out, do you?

What you’re drinking: Beer, but now there’s one in each hand.

Even your friend the borderline alcoholic is warning you to slow down at this point.  Pay them no heed, as tonight, you’re celebrating your freedom!  You want all your friends around you at such a joyous time.  Even that roommate who never leaves the apartment and kind of creeps you out.  You know what, you’d better go get your phone and give them a call.  It wouldn’t be fair for them to miss your night of freedom, would it?

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11 p.m.

Location of phone:  One of your friends wrestled it away from you.  And that friend is dead to you now.  DEAD TO YOU!

What you’re drinking:  Jack and Coke.

Beer just isn’t doing it for you any more.  Time to kick things up a notch.  You’re openly flirting with a stranger across the bar now.  Unfortunately, something about them reminds you of your ex and you start to cry a little.  The rest of the hour goes like this: drink, weep, drink, weep, drink, weep, drink, weep, drink.  Your friends begin to wisely distance themselves from you. 

12 a.m.

Location of phone:  On the bar in front of you, taunting you, daring you to use it.  Man, your phone is smug.  You should just make the call already to shut it up.

What you’re drinking:  Some bizarre hybrid of bathtub gin and paint remover.  You don’t remember what it’s called, but you do remember you had to sign a waiver before they could legally sell it to you.

How come no one will hook up with you?  People don’t know what they’re missing, because you’re a catch.  At least that’s what your mom said when you informed her of your break-up.  Your attention soon returns to your phone. Thanks to speed dial even someone as drunk as yourself finds it remarkably easy to press one button and get your ex on the line.  Damn you, Verizon, damn you to hell!

1 a.m.

Drunk girl on her cell phone
"NO! You bring your penis HERE!! I’m sitting stairs and… I don’ know where my drink is… you still love meee?? Get over here NOW!!"
 Location of phone:  Pressed firmly against your ear.

What you’re drinking:  Oh, you’ve been cut off by now.  And not only by the bartender, but by your own friends, who have deemed you a menace to yourself and everyone around you.

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No one is answering.  One call turns to two, which quickly turns to twelve.  Suddenly, they pick up.  The sound of your ex’s voice startles you back to reality.  You clearly hadn’t thought this plan all the way through.  At first the conversation is awkward, partially because of the recent break-up, but mainly because you have to periodically stop talking long enough to throw up.

Emotions are rekindled and finally they invite you back to their apartment to "watch a movie," even though they don’t own a television and only watch pretentious foreign films that they pretend to enjoy so they can act cultured and lord it over their friends.  God, you hate that about them.  But tonight you’re willing to overlook their obvious flaws because there’s no way you’re going back to your cold, dark, empty room alone.

9 a.m.

Location of phone:  Flung from the window in a fit of passion.

What you’re drinking:  Shame.  All you’re drinking in is shame.  Oh, and Gatorade.  Lots and lots of shame and Gatorade.

The birds are singing and the sun is shining, and yet, you’re dying more than a little bit inside.  The very thought of lying next to this person for even one more minute makes the bile rise in your throat.  You want out of here; you want out of here right now.  But there’s no escape.  If only your telephone had some sort of cloaking or teleportation device you could get yourself out of this situation just as easily as you got into it.  But alas, all it does is take blurry pictures and aid in your booze-fueled shenanigans.  Again, you look skyward and curse Verizon and everything they stand for.  After all, it’s really the phone company’s fault that you’re in this mess to begin with, isn’t it?  

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