The Mathematics of Love

According to Charlotte York, it takes half the length of the relationship to recover from a relationship. I've never been good at math, but let me see if I can figure this out.

L÷2=R{where L= length of relationship and R=recovery time}

The cute neighbor and I got together in April of 2010 and parted in July of 2011, which equals approximately 16 months. Divide that by 2, and you get 8 months. So according to Charlotte, I'll be over it by... March 2012. MARCH?!?!?! Oh no, no, no, no, no. I must get over this more quickly than March!

Every time that I think that I'm over it, something happens to make me realize that I'm not. First it was seeing photos of him pop up on facebook, (which I then made sure to "hide" all his future facebook activity in record time) then it was something as innocent as seeing the university he is now employed by playing in an athletic event that made me desperate to text/call him. (I didn't. *pats self on back*) And now it's an email from him.

I was actually thinking that I was so over it that maybe, just maybe I could drop him an email to see if he's found a new apartment, etc., but decided no, I should definitely at least wait until I get myself settled into London. By that point, I'll be very busy and surrounded by lots of new people with exotic accents, and I really and truly won't care about him. But when I saw his name pop up in my inbox, I realized just how unready I am for that. The usual queasiness in the pit of my stomach, and the prickling just behind my eyes returned. The email was innocent enough, he was actually just forwarding on information about free baseball tickets we won for being so awesome at tailgating (and the tickets just happen to be for my birthday, but I'll be in London, of course), but all I want now is a calming glass of wine, only my parents don't drink wine. They don't drink anything at all, and why is it that my parents' house is completely dry? And in this god forsaken place, the liquor store downtown closes at 6pm and they don't sell any alcohol in grocery stores, so I really, really cannot have a calming glass of wine. You'd think they were recovering alcoholics or something, but they're not, they just don't like alcohol. I thought of the possibility that some unsuspecting soul had given them a bottle of wine as a gift over the holidays (it's happened), but if I ask them for that, they'll automatically assume I've got an alcohol problem (they would, trust me), even though I haven't had any alcohol at all since I was at Grayer's place (and left a bottle of wine there, DAMMIT!), so I guess I'll just have to hope they have a dance lesson tonight or something so I can ransack the house looking for wine. Now I sound as if I do have a problem.

Ok. It's fine. I'll just have a calming glass of water and some chocolate instead. That's almost the same thing. And piss on Charlotte's formula. In two weeks I'll be in London, surrounded by men with adorable accents, and Fen will be around for cocktails. I don't need that stupid formula. I just need some wine...

The Anatomy of A Break-Up

by Violet and Grayer

If it ain't broke, don't fix it

I know I've haven't blogged recently. The sole reason for this is that my life is very unexciting at the moment. I go to work, get hopelessly stressed out over work then come home and keep telling myself that I'll clean my room but I don't. (I really must clean it though as in less than THREE WEEKS VIOLET WILL BE MOVING TO LONDON!)

However, I have been meaning to blog about something. Something that has enraged me. Wait for it...they are remaking Dirty Dancing.

The face that 'they' is Kenny Ortega, choreographer of the original is behind this project is even more infuriating - doesn't he know how amazing the original is?! Why would he want to mess with it?

It's bad enough that Hollywood has become so unbelievably unoriginal that they are rehashing and remaking various films and television shows (sooner or later they will remake 'Friends', then we will all feel really old) but the fact that they are actually considering remaking one of the most loved films of all times? Patrick Swayze is probably turning in his grave.

Now I know that Dirty Dancing isn't for everyone. Many of my friends don't get my fascination with it and think I'm some naive romantic for even liking it. In fact, one of my friends used Dirty Dancing as the reason why I was still a virgin, I was waiting for 'movie love.' (The actual reason was of course the fact that I hadn't met anyone suitable who I wanted to have sex with for the first time. Call me crazy).

However, I think we can all agree that if it's not broken then don't fix it. And Dirty Dancing is not broken so don't remake it! Rant over.

But seriously, don't get me started on the rumours of a third Bridget Jones movie. As if the remakes aren't bad enough Hollywood does not know when to quit with sequels...

Help! I need somebody

I've had a weird day.  A very weird day.

It has finally happened.  I've finally seen someone I know on OkCupid.  A guy I know from my volleyball meetup group (which has hundreds of people in it, he's an organizer), sent me a message this morning.  He didn't realize who I was.  And while the message was very clever and I would probably have responded, I can't, because I want to play volleyball again someday without it being wicked awkward.  I'm slightly mortified by this experience.  Also, I must really look like hell when playing beach volleyball.

I was out to lunch for a coworker's last day, when my innocent Chinese colleague (who this past weekend I took to a bar for his first time ever and got him drunk off a half a beer) asked what it felt like to get high.  My boss replied, "I wouldn't know, I've never done marijuana."  So my colleague just kept asking me what it feels like.  Note: You don't ask someone about illegal drug use while in front of your boss!  Isn't that written in the employee manual or something?  After the longest 30 seconds of my life, I just shrugged and said "Google it."

Here's the kicker.  After returning from lunch, I get on Facebook to find a random ass message from Jonny Fucking Damon.  It's been a long time since his last Facebook message, but oh, how I remember it.  This time around he said, "Hey. Random, I know, but you just popped up in my head. How are you? Have a good summer?"  Which leads me to ask aloud, What the Fuck?  What the hell does he want?  Why is he doing this?  Why did he put a "." after Hey when it clearly should have been a "!" or ","

But seriously, WHY DO THEY DO THIS?!  Pop up out of no where, wondering how you've been!  Mind your business, assholes!  I was doing quite well without you wondering how I was, thank you.  Now I'm going to think about you the rest of the afternoon while trying to resist answering your message.  Damn my curiosity. I need to know what you want.  Must...Answer...  I waited three whole hours before responding with a brief "I'm doing well, sad summer's over, did you get a teaching job?" type message.  But I just kept thinking, what the fuck does Jonny fucking Damon want?  Why now? Ugh.

He responded shortly there after, giving me a life update with questions about myself thrown in, and ended with this,  "Mr. D-bag (me) still has your movie, what would you say to a drink, so I can deliver it to you finally?"   What the hell are you up to, Jonny fucking Damon?!  Yes, you still have my fucking movie.  You said you'd get it back to me 20 times since I left it at your house.  But why do you suddenly have a guilty conscience about it 8 months later?  What are you after?!

Would someone please tell me how to respond?  Seriously, tell me what to do.  I'm curious as to what the hell he wants but I don't know if seeing him would be a good thing.  I also don't think it will actually happen as he promised to get it to me so many times before.  I would like it back, not because I can't find it for 10 bucks at Wal-mart, but it's the principle that matters now.  What would he do if there wasn't a movie involved? Would he still be asking me for drinks?  I'm so curious!  Any advice will help.  Pleeeeease!

Frank in real life

I got on the train late last night.  I had been out at a bar with friends and I actually looked pretty dang good.  I sat down and looked at the guy who sat across from me.  He had on questionable brown shoes, jeans that were a wash that reminded me of dad jeans, a polo shirt and glasses.  He looked like a dork.  A major dork.  It took me a moment to realize it was Financial Frank.

I've never seen Financial Frank in real life before.  I've also never seen Financial Frank wearing pants before.  We live in the same area but we've never run into each other.  This was weird.  So I just stared at him.  He cut his hair since last time I saw him.  I didn't care for it.  I never did like it when he wore glasses.   And seriously, what's up with the dad jeans?  It took a minute but he eventually realized some one was staring at him, but in that minute I realized something--I'm totally the better looking one.  It was a nice feeling.  I smiled and changed seats to talk to him.

The gravy train that is Financial Frank is coming to a close.  He's moving across town this month.  Let's be honest, our relationship is not strong enough to endure a subway ride.  At least not regularly.  And after seeing him in real life, I'm going to go ahead and say I'm ok with that.

I have a date tonight that I'm actually looking forward to.  He's a science type with a quirky sense of humor.  He was Don Draper for Halloween last year so he deserves a shot....I hope he wears a suit.

Cake eater

The good news is, it's over.  8-year-Lisa is officially married and currently on her honeymoon (but has been on Facebook an alarming amount of time).  The wedding was lovely, the weather was perfect, the bride was radiant, the eye-makeup was gorgeous, and the groom's brother was hot (yowza!).   Something that didn't look great, however, was the cake.

The cake arrived shortly after my date and I did.  It did not look good (though we later found that it was delicious).  A friend of a friend had made it, and it was obviously homemade.  You could see streaks of the underlying chocolate cake, there were cracks between the layers, and the hand-painted edible pansies were some of the saddest things I've ever seen.  The bride was not happy (though surprisingly calm).  My date and I suggested a fix, to add real flowers.  She trusted me to get it done right so as I started stealing flowers from centerpieces, my date started cutting them.  And then we went to work.  We kept the pansies for filler and structural support, while adding real flowers to cover them up as much as possible.  It was really fun.  I love having to being creative under pressure! We now believe that as a team, we would make great cake decorators (minus the whole icing thing).  My date said things like "Put this pink one here and it will really pop against this purple."  Needless to say, comments like this didn't really convince me he was straight.  Nor did our very long conversation about Glee on our way there.

The wedding was fun but it wasn't a wild party.  The family started stacking up chairs within a few hours, so we were back to Boston by dinner.  We were absolutely exhausted after getting up so early, so we had dinner, watched a movie, and went to bed by 10.  That's when things got weird.  My wedding date was...on me all night.  Not on me, but....up against me all night.  I'm not saying he tried anything, but I have a big bed.  Violet slept in it with me for a week without ever touching me (except that one time when I hit her in the face) yet this guy couldn't seem to do anything but crowd me.   I was exhausted but I couldn't sleep.  I could feel him breathing on my neck.   In the morning, he was giving me crap for being a bed hog.  Me!?  Then he said how well he slept and how comfortable my bed is, all while playing with my hair.  What the fuck is going on?!

Much of this continued for the rest of a lazy Sunday.  We read in the park, we napped, we watched a movie all while continuing this weird closeness.  It wasn't sexual, it was just cozy.  Maybe he was just craving some human interaction?  I don't know.  But it was weird.  Little brother characters aren't supposed to be so touchy.  

What Would Don Draper Do?

This time at home has taught me something: I'm an angry person here. I've always known that I didn't like living in my hometown. That's why I went to college out of state and I stayed there. But I've also come to learn that being here makes me angry.

It's something I didn't notice when I first got home because I chalked it up to the Break-up Blues. And while the crying and the loneliness were definitely part of that, there was also a part of me that just resented being here, so I went to see Grayer.

Visiting Grayer was a very, very good decision in all facets. First of all, Grayer is a lot more fun to hang out with than my parents. She drinks, they don't. She will go see the Glee 3-D concert movie with me, then choreograph a routine to PYT, with Grayer on lead vocals, ala Artie, and me on back-up vocals and dance, ala Mike Chang. While walking by Fenway Park. We're that cool. Then she'll belt out Glee tunes with me in the car while on a road trip. Ok, we might be gleeks. Maybe. She will also make herself scarce so I can hook-up with her roommate, which brings me to my second point.

My fling with Bernard was exactly what the doctor ordered. I really, really hate to admit it, but I really needed the attention and the compliments to ice my bruised ego. By the time I left, I realized that I had had a lot more sex in a week than I would have had I been in a relationship, and I realized that this whole single thing might not be so bad after all. Because let's face it, after the first month or so, you stop having sex multiple times a night, you just go the hell to sleep. So you would think going back to Bumfuck, USA properly sexed would make me a much happy camper, but you would be wrong.

While I did have a proper post-coital glow for a day or so, the anger crept back in before my bus had even arrived. Sure, there are some advantages to being here, namely the free rent and the swimming pool, but when I'm here, I'm just counting the days until I can escape. I just don't want to go to dinner at Ruby Tuesday's with my parents because they have a coupon. And when I open the refrigerator, I don't need my mother to start listing all the contents of the fridge as if I can't see what is directly in front of me. (What is with that? Is this a thing of all mothers or just mine?)

Which brings me to the irrational anger. Yesterday, I decided the perfect thing to do would be to get caught up on Mad Men, one of the best shows EVER, and since my parents stream Netflix, it was perfect! Until I couldn't figure out which one of the 15 remote controls would get me to the Wii. I called my parents to ask how to switch it,but when my mother's complicated directions came to nothing, and she finally just said, "Sorry, I'll just have to do it when I get home," I got angry. The "I'm home and can't get out" anger combined with my irrational "technology isn't working the way I want it to!" anger (because I do think I get abnormally angry when technology doesn't work. This is something I should work on. New Year's Resolution 2012!) was not a good combination. I calmed down by watching The Gilmore Girls (on cable) and reading whoopie pie recipes. Ahhhhhhh.

I have a wedding to travel to in 2 weekends, and after that it will only be 10 days until London. (eeek!) I'm just hoping I can make it that far, but I'm hoping the streaming Netflix will help. Let's see how many more tv series addictions I can develop.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for the finale of The Glee Project!

The wedding date

Do you ever have one of those days when you have a day off so you get your haircut and the blow out that follows gives you shiny bouncy hair that is only seen on tv?  Then you practice makeup for your upcoming wedding that gives you the overall "I never look this good!/why don't I always wear makeup and hair product?" feeling so you therefore have to leave the house to be seen?  Yeah, me too.  That's why I'm at Starbucks.  I'm glad I have an iced drink and a Macbook to fit it.  People are probably being distracted by my shiny bouncy hair.  I should stop tossing it around as if I'm in a hair color commercial/having an aneurysm.

To answer your question, yes I do have an actual reason for posting today.  And to answer your other question, yes I have considered taking a picture of myself for my next online dating profile.

Tomorrow is the big day, 8 year Lisa is gettin' hitched!  It seems like it was only 10 years ago when those two lovebirds met.  Some kids really do move fast.  It was only 8 months ago when they got engaged with the most unromantic non-proposal I've ever heard. I'm a bridesmaid tomorrow, but more importantly, I am the makeup artist (which is why I need to practice).  Yeah, I'm kind of a big deal.  Such a big deal that I should be there now, doing bridesmaid duties and picking which of his brothers I want to walk me back up the aisle (the cute one, obvi).  But I'm not.  Mostly because of the drama that is my wedding date.  No, I take that back, mostly due to the Crazy that is her entire family.

My wedding date is one of the coolest kids I know.  He's a former student/undergraduate from my grad school days.  The kid looks up to me (figuratively).  I haven't seen him in a year but when he happened to call me as Lisa and I discussed my date options, he seemed like the obvious choice (Especially since Lisa knows and loves him as well).  His exact response was "I do make a fabulous plus one.  What are you wearing? I'll go to Kohl's."  See? Don't you love this guy already?!  Like many, I don't think the kid is straight.  He claims this is because he wears sweaters and has skinny arms.  That may be true.  I'd also add the whole only-friends-with-so-many-girls thing, not to mention the constantly-singing-show-tunes thing.  (He always used to sing "Oh my God, oh my God, you guys" which I much later learned was a verse from Legally Blonde: the Musical...What straight man would sing that?).   I don't care about his sexual preference, all I know is he is my date of choice and definitely not because I'm going to get lucky, he's like a little brother! (Last year he did stay at my place.  As we got into bed he told me he was strictly a little spoon.  He then preceded to ask me my thoughts on Justin Bieber as we drifted off to sleep.  When I didn't have thoughts on the Biebs, he told me I sucked at pillow talk.  We haven't slept together since. And by slept, I do mean sleep).

Let me say, as a bridesmaid, I believe I deserve a date.  Just because I don't have a boyfriend doesn't mean I don't need someone to dance with, or more importantly, someone to hold my clutch while I pee.  Lisa seemed to think this too, until she got around to the guest list, then she just got weird.  I thought it odd when the invitation arrived with both of our names on it.  Seemed a bit much for just a friend.  I thought it really odd when on the inside information sheet it said "We can only accomodate the guest addressed on your invitation."  What they were saying was, you can take this dude but you can't take anyone else.  Umm...what the fuck?  It's one thing if he were my boyfriend and they don't want me bring a random friend instead.  It's another thing when he's a random friend and I can't take anyone else.  What if he bails?  Who will hold my clutch while I pee?  Alright weirdos, I'll let this one go but I think you are all crazies.

This wedding is on Lisa's grandparents farm in the middle of nowhere. So in the middle of nowhere that there's only little Bed & Breakfasts within an hour.  Being a bridesmaid and therefore a big deal, Lisa invited me to stay at "camp" with her the night before.  Awesome, can my date stay there (I have to ask these things because she seems hell-bent on ignoring his existence)?  No, her mother would be uncomfortable with that.  Even with him setting up a tent out in the yard and sleeping alone.  Uncomfortable, she says.  Ummm...what the fuck?  Ok, crazies.

Months ago, Lisa promised her friends they can camp the night of the wedding in the field at her grandparents farm.  It'd be a fun after party and no one will have to worry about driving anywhere.  Since this was an option for Saturday night, and my date was not permitted to be near the family, I asked if my date and I could just camp out in the field the night before.  No, her dad doesn't want anyone in the field.  At all.  Two days before the wedding, her dad (who doesn't even own the farm) decides that no one can stay in the field at all.  What does he think we're going to do out there?  Have a giant orgy?! Does he think it will be the site of the next Woodstock?! You need more than two people for that, weirdo.

The Lisa family, if admitting his existence, appears to be putting a restraining order on my date.  Don't they know that not only do I rely on him for a good time, but I also need him to keep me away from Lisa's older brother (who I may have accidentally made out with once while he was dating his ex-girlfriend)?  No, I suppose they wouldn't know that.  Her family was effective in one thing, and that's keeping me from the wedding activities.  I am now missing the making of the bouquets as well as the rehearsal.  I feel terrible about this but Lisa assures me she doesn't mind and they'll fill me in in the morning.  Let's hope she actually doesn't mind, and won't just be mad about it later.  Don't blame me, blame your wacko parents.

How Violet Got Her Groove Back

Mission: Accomplished!

Turns out, Grayer actually knows what she's talking about.

Turns out that Bernard is good in bed.

Turns out this single thing might not be so bad.

Rebound successful. Coming to Boston was a good idea. Thanks, Grayer. I promise to do the same for you. In fact, while searching for a flat in London, I'll be sure to see to it that at least one of my roommates is surprisingly hot and good in bed, just for you.

And the Oscar goes to...

...Me. For the Best. Maid. Of. Honour. Speech. EVER.

OK, maybe it wasn't the best ever, but it was pretty damn good. I didn't stumble over my words, I thought of jokes on the spot which were pretty funny, I made fun of the groom for mispronouncing my name (my name confuses British people)and right at the end I started to choke up. Not crocodile tears but actual, genuine emotion. I didn't see this coming but it totally made the speech. People were putty in my hands. The Best Man looked shell shocked - how was he going to follow real tears? He followed it with an inflatable speech, but that's another story.

The best thing? The wedding was fun! And enjoyable! And with ZERO drama. In short, I had an amazing time.

I'm just really glad it's over.

Operation: Rebound

I'm in Boston with Grayer. I got home to Pennsylvania on Sunday, and made it all the way to Wednesday when I decided I couldn't take it anymore and I bought a bus ticket to Boston. How long will I be here? Depends. I'm not leaving until I properly rebound.

The Rebound Quest got started on Saturday. Grayer and I went to Fenway, but not inside the stadium. No, we don't have an extra $200 each to see the Yankees/Red Sox. But we did better. We went to a bar behind the stadium to watch the game. On our way over, we put together an impromptu Scavenger Hunt list, to ensure a good time and make things a bit more interesting. What we put on the list isn't all that important, except one thing: Get Yankees fans to buy us drinks. We had been there at the bar an entire 10 minutes when Shorty (named so because of his small stature) walked up to Grayer and gave her a high-five. He was taller than Grayer (barely) but shorter than me. He had two friends with him, one extremely tall, and one in the middle. They were all Yankees fans. 10 minutes after starting the conversation, they offered to buy us the next round. Well, that was easy.

Shorty made it known that he was interested in Grayer, while I basically went back and forth between the other two. During the course of the conversation, we found out that the Tall Guy was the only one who actually lived in Boston, and the other two were staying with him for the weekend. Not an ideal situation for sleepovers for any party.

After the game, Grayer and I decided to go find some food, and the Yankee boys came with us. The dinner was entertaining, to say the least. We were a loud, but not obnoxious table. So much so that the manager told our waitress to give us two desserts on the house, simply because we were the nicest people he had met that day. Lesson: Be friendly and loud.

Afterward we walked to a different bar, and the medium-sized guy asked me if I was "going to stop doing the big sister thing." Apparently it seemed to Shorty that I was being too protective of my younger sister and not letting her go off alone with him. This was not the case. Excuse me, but Grayer and I have a long-established code, and when she wants me to get lost, she will give me the code, and I will. The only person who was cock-blocking was Shorty himself, because Grayer just wasn't that interested.

After awhile, we decided nothing else was going to happen that night, thanks to out-of-town guests. The Tall Guy had my phone number, so if he wants to call me after his friends go home, he will. So we left, but not before the medium guy told me I shouldn't move to London, but instead move to New Jersey and date him, because he never meets girls like me. This made me feel loads better. I may not have rebounded, but I know that I could have.

The Quest continues...

What's in a drink?

I was lying in bed with Financial Frank the other morning, picking his brain on the inner workings of a man.  I like to talk to him about dating because 1. He's so open and honest about it (and then says, "I don't know why I just told you that") 2.  He's constantly around women (sisters, cousins, roommates, friends) and 3. he's dated a lot.  Seriously, the dude's been around, yet his longest relationship has only lasted 4-5 months.

He was telling me about his most recent date with a girl that he knew would be way too high maintenance, first by the swanky bar she decided on and secondly by the drink she ordered.  With all his dating experience, he's come up with way to categorize a girl's needs based on what she drinks.  Here they are, from lowest maintenance to highest.

1. Domestic and Light.  Ordering a Bud Light and not just because it's the cheapest thing on the menu (he'll pay, obviously).  I say she just hasn't developed a pallet for beer yet.
2. Quality Regional Brew.  I argued that a girl who orders a beer that doesn't taste like water isn't any more high maintenance than the previous, she just has some self-respect.   (And yes, this is what I order).
3. Wine.  Low key but trying to stay a little classy.
4. Well drinks or Malt beverages.  Doesn't like beer, but still keeps it cheap.  We agreed, a girl who doesn't like beer isn't that cool of a girl.
5. Mixed drinks.  Can you say, Malibu Baybreeze? A classic for ladies in their 20s it seems
6. Mixed drink with specific instruction.  No house tequila for me, Senor, make it Jose Quervo. Gold. 
7. Cosmopolitan (or other fruity martinis).  Let's face it, Sex and the City girls are high maintenance girls, so are the ones who order like them. 

I have to admit, it makes sense to me, but do you agree?  Don't be offended, drink what you want to drink.  Some men love girly high maintenance girls, some men don't.  Just be yourself.

And as for judging men on what they drink?  I can't respect a guy who can't finish his beer, nor could I ever date a guy who drinks apple martinis.  Stick to the brews, the rum and cokes, and the whiskeys.  I like my men to be manly.


Stay tuned for next time's Financial Frank lesson entitled "What men want: Children"

You'll be surprised.

Cruel Intentions

This just in: break-ups are cruel. It's such a swirling, mix of emotions that don't follow the time-table they're meant to. The sadness, the tears, the anger, the I'm-going-to-be-ok attitude don't always follow the scheduled order that they're supposed to. Relapses happen. At least, they happen to me.

Last week, I was hit with The Rage. It came in fast and furiously. It was the perfect emotional opportunity to rebound. As I said before, the 23-year-old baby-child downstairs moved out the day after the cute neighbor's fuckwittage became official, so he was out. Shame, too. He was cute. He was 23. He would have been perfect.

Then I totally perked up when I realized that The Dark Horse was actually back in town before I left! Yessssssss! Someone I feel comfortable with, as we've already done this song and dance before! The perfect rebound! I went ahead and emailed him, telling him I would love to see him before I leave! (I figured I could go ahead and use the ! I mean, what did I have to lose?) Only to find out that he has settled down with his One and Only, the same ex-girlfriend who had left things open-ended with him. They finally got their act together and are finally living their Happily Ever After, apparently. Fuck. I mean, I'm actually quite happy for him, and honestly, I'm glad I was dumped for someone who was his One True Love instead of a meaningless fling. But this wasn't helping anyone out.

I tried going to a party of a friend of McNerdy's with D.B., thinking a party would be a good place to mingle, as everyone was a friend-of-someone's, only the party was pretty small, and there were twice as many women there as men. The men that were there were completely undoable (i.e., McNerdy and D.B.) and people thought D.B. and I were a couple. Fail.

Is the universe conspiring against my rebound?

Then Grayer told me she might have a solution to my "booty problem." When I figured out that she was talking about my need for a rebound and not where to hide some buried treasure, I asked her what it was.

"Bernard."

"Huh?"

"My roommate."

"Yeah, what about him?"

Sigh. "I think my roommate Bernard will sleep with you."

"Oh. You sound like a pimp."

Now, I really, really appreciate you looking out for my needs, Grayer. However, the best way to handle this probably would have been NOT to tell me about this plan. Now what will happen is, I will show up at your place, and obviously see Bernard, and that's when things will get awkward. Then when nothing has happened by the time I leave, I'll feel completely rejected, even though I never made a move due to the awkwardness.

Now I'm home at my parents' house, sitting in the bedroom I spent my teenage years in (although it's been tastefully redecorated), with absolutely no chance in hell for a rebound. I've just had a relapse into the crying, sobbing, hiccuping stage, most likely due to the fact that 1.) I didn't get a chance to rebound properly and 2.) I'm at my parents' house. There's really nothing else to do but think about it.

And yes, I know I'll have so much more fun in London now that I don't have to worry about a long-distance relationship, and yes, I know I'll find my One and Only someday, but that still doesn't change the fact that this one failed, when I oh-so-wanted it to succeed, and therefore, I feel a bit like I've failed.

See, it's a cruel thing these break-ups. Just when you think you've made progress, you're right back where you started: curled up in the fetal position, willing it all to go away. Cruel indeed.