I promise that my blogs for the next 6 months will not be about my break up. Seriously. I mean not that I'm trying to brag or anything but life has been pretty good since I went back to my trolling for dick and taking my pants off in public days. I'll be 30 soon and won't be able to post that shit on the internet anymore so I figure I'm pretty smart to live it up now and pound my way to the middle of...something. I'm not sure what happens to you after you turn 30 but I feel like something weird is going to happen to my peesh. Like it will become more selective or something and clamp shut if a 23 year-old who works at California Pizza Kitchen tries to get in there. And I like playing the cougar card every so often. I mean when else is it appropriate for me to do that weird bendy thing that only the 23 year-olds know I can do? Right? Exactly. But I digress.
I read a shit ton of magazines. Cosmo, Glamour, Lucky, Plucked (that one's not actually real but I feel like it should be); all those are sitting in my apartment somewhere. It seemed like fate that the week after I re-entered singledom all of them had articles on how to get through a break up. I tend to handle my problems the adult way, with tons of booze and blacked out hook ups, but I thought maybe I could try following a professional's advice for once. So I read every single mother fucking one of those articles. And you know what I learned? NOTHING BITCHES. It was all fucked up advice like "hang out with your girlfriends more" and "take yourself on dates and get to know yourself again." Are you shitting me? I was ALREADY taking myself out on dates when I paid for dinner every night without the mystery of "is she or isn't she" because I already knew I was going to put out. And weird, my girlfriends don't want to hang out with me and risk the chance that I'm going to have a public mental breakdown and lie in the gutter crying at any moment. Thanks for nothing you overpaid and underdressed cunts. I decided that I'm going to break down how to get over a break up with the real business. The truth hurts so if you're feeling emotionally unstable put the razor away and grab a glass of wine instead. I promise....booze fixes everything. Except an unplanned pregnancy, trust me on that one.
These are what I've discovered are the stages of a break up; so those of you who think you're with "the one" will be ready for the shitshow when it happens. If you disagree I give NO FUCKS because I'm right and you're dumb.
Stage 1:
The EPIC pity party. I'm talking lying on the ground listening to that "you beat my ass but I still love you song" from Rihanna over and over while sobbing and trying to force your dog to cuddle you when he'd rather jump off the balcony headfirst and then hobble into traffic to finish the job. This stage also factors in the moments when you're sitting in public with a friend and suddenly burst into tears for absolutely no reason. You're sitting there blowing snot into her french fries and she's fucking pissed because she has to pretend that she doesn't care and she's supportive of you when she really wants to stab you in the throat because every attractive male in a 10 mile radius has slowly backed away and now that they're not looking she would scarf down those fries but she can't because you got bodily fluids all over them. We've all seen that girl crying in her car, sitting in traffic, screaming some Kelly Clarkson song at the top of her lungs and punching her steering wheel. We've laughed and cried with this girl. Reality check...you ARE this girl. In my case it was an Adele song and I was also chain smoking but you get my drift. Looks of pity and fear on all sides. The only thing worse than traffic? Being stuck next to that hot mess.
Stage 2:
Once the pity party ends the real party begins. I've now decided that I'm going to be so god damn fun that the fun police might actually show up at The Rape Den (aka my apartment for those of you not cool enough to know) and arrest me. This leads to Tuesday night blackouts where I wake up on Wednesday morning naked, on my living room floor, while my dog looks at me with shame and remorse and refuses to let me touch him. I may have also come to consciousness on my balcony at 2 a.m. on a Thursday morning realizing that I have no pants on and the public has had full access to my upper thighs and wedgie for possibly 30 minutes or more. Who cares though? I mean what would Lindsey Lohan do? I can tell you...another line and then she'd get right back on that acid tripping horse and do it all over again. The party stage is fun but it's also a struggle when you're pushing thirty and those bags under your bloodshot eyes don't just magically disappear over a few hours. Those bitches stay with you. And I'm on a man hunt. No one wants to date the girl who is storing tequila shots on her face. Not cute. This stage loses it's appeal when you come to and realize that you've brought a grade A douchebag to your apartment and homeboy thinks he's going to stay over and cuddle. Fortunately that whiskey shot was ready to make a second appearance and nothing makes a dude bail from your apartment faster than puke. Or a positive pregnancy test sitting on your bathroom sink. FACT.
Stage 3:
This is when I decide that I am going to buckle down and really land Mr. Right. I am going to find that unicorn of a man who appreciates my sarcasm, loves my spaz of a dog, thinks my cat shitting on the floor is charming and has no problem staying sober and picking me up off the floor of bars to take me home and cuddle me and tell me I'm pretty. This stage doesn't last long because I quickly realize that I'm half in Stage 1 and 2 still and this perfect man is not going to want to date me when I have tears and vomit on my face/clothes/body/in my purse. Coming back to Stage 3 is probably a good idea. We all saw that childhood movie where they killed all the unicorns anyway. No sense in striving for the impossible.
Stage 4:
I call this the Mary-Kate stage. This is when you decide that you will stop eating and be the sexiest corpse ever. My ex will sob at my funeral when he sees how hot I became and he'll totally want to put it in me but I'll have bodyguards to ensure that nothing goes up there. I made out with a mortician once and he over shared, I know what kind of shit goes down. Someone is guarding my vagina until it's burned to a crisp in that big ass oven. This is also when you decide that you're going to join a gym, start waking up an hour early to jog, fill your fridge with lettuce and carrots and save all of your calories for that bottle of wine you have to drink when you get home from work because you can still be fun when you're emaciated. Then you realize that your booze budget doesn't allow any room for a gym membership. Also I really hate sweating in public. Almost more than I hate watching other people sweat in public. If someone's sweaty limb brushes against me it's an immediate dry heave situation. If I'm wet in public it better be because it's raining or I'm involved in a wet t-shirt contest and nailing it. Also after that bottle of wine I kind of need a burrito. It's necessary. Also let's all remember that Mary Kate is recovered now. Sort of. You know you've moved on from this stage when you wake up with an empty bag of Doritos in your bed and instead of feeling bad you're just sad that you have to stop and buy another bag on your way home from work today.
Stage 5:
Now that I've realized that I don't burst into tears for no reason anymore and that fucking song that used to make me scream and dive for the knob to my radio while swerving and possibly killing children while driving doesn't even make me flinch anymore, I've decided that I hate most men and give no fucks if I die alone. I'm tired ya'all. I'm broke from my month-long bender and the last bruise from falling down my stairs every night is finally in that weird yellow/green stage. I don't care about impressing anyone and licking a stranger's face just because I can. I don't feel like I'm losing in this break-up war if I stay home and watch a movie and go to bed at 10:00 p.m. I also feel like if I meet a cool dude rad. If he's cool and also has pro status at 69ing and wants to share some insight into that one position where your leg is all....nevermind...that's even better. I know that the homies who stuck by me while I went batshit crazy and probably shouldn't have had sharp objects in my home will fix me if I lose my shit again.
Also, just for clarification, as far as I'm concerned...I WON.
But you can still feel free to take me out and buy me drinks. I'll split my burrito with you and insult strangers. Who doesn't want/need that in their life?
EXACTLY.
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