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Mind Of Man: How To Get Over A Breakup

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I’m single, which is working out great because I hate grooming. My ex is awesome, but between you and me and the internet, she could be a total bitch about “soap and water.” Whatever! Now I’m free to wallow in my own filth and believe me, I stink hard. Sure, I look like a lumberjack raised by monkeys, but that’s not why I go to the movies alone. I go to the movies alone because I might as well get used to it, seeing as that’s how I’m going to die. Alone. When I was younger, bourbon was my primary emotional coping mechanism. But since then, I’ve become an adult. Instead of drowning my feelings in delicious brown magic water, I express them to my bestest friends on Twitter. Why, just last night, I twooted the funniest twitter tweet, which was “WHY? #Why?” But I know why this happened and I think it’s related to that one time she said “I love you” and I responded “Baby Stewie is a hilarious character! A baby that speaks like people!”

Without any malice and with actual love in her voice, she told me what she wanted and I totally checked out. My heart treated her like a bill collector and let the voicemail pick up.

You know, that old saying is true. If you love someone, set them free, but change the locks.

I know what you’re wondering. Am I okay? Do I have a wheezing Grinch heart? Am I wandering the Moors, howling at the moon? Check it out: I’m totally awesome with everything. I got this.

My recent breakup was mutual, which is to say we both agree that she dumped me. She reasonably informed me in a mature manner about her feelings and any emotionally evolved man would have calmly nodded and expressed his feelings, but understood that the relationship was not working out. But not me.

Without any malice and with actual love in her voice, she told me what she wanted and I totally checked out. My heart treated her like a bill collector and let the voicemail pick up.

I even tried to do that thing where you pick up the phone and some stern yet chirpy voice asks for you and you instinctively drop your voice and respond, “Why no I’m sorry he’s not here right now. Can I take a message? Me? I’m his butler.” Thankfully, besides having a great sense of humor, or maybe that was just patience the whole time, she forgave me my momentary mental shutdown.

I even employed a tactic that I can only describe as a “Jedi Mind Trick,” which involved me waving my hand in the air and saying, “You don’t want to break up with me” in a bad British accent. We went back and forth like this a few times until she asked me if I was having a mild stroke. But eventually, I took it like a man. A nine-year old man who had just dropped his Eggo waffle jelly side down on the kitchen linoleum. I scooped my dignity into a little thimble I carry around with me and oozed out under her apartment door.

Then I did what any grown man in his mid-30s would do. I went to an all-you-can eat Chinese buffet and plotted my revenge. I took the “all-you-can-eat” part as a personal challenge. I shoveled forkfuls of General Tso’s chicken into my face with a fury, as if I had a pet tapeworm. I slurped up lo mien noodles like a lady-less tramp. In between bites, I plotted. Oh, she’ll be sorry, I thought. I’ll show her. I will channel Phil Collins.

Future revenge scenarios played out in my mind, my mouth greased with bright red sweet and sour sauce like Fat Joker. She’ll fall to her knees and shake her fist at the sky when she sees me rescue those koala bears from that burning zoo. She’ll walk into the club at the very minute I’m pushing Eliza Dushku away on the dance floor and giving Zoe Saldana a “come hither” look, and of course, she doth hither. Then there’s the moving moment when the scientists usher her into the command center so I can say good-bye to her via video screen right before I ignite the bomb that blows up the asteroid that’s threatening the Earth. “I wish I could come back to you,” I’d say a million miles away, “But humanity needed a blogger, and I just happened to be that blogger.” She’d weep and press her hand on the screen. I’d do the same and say, “But the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one.”

But I’m doing great. I only dry heave with grief in the shower. I’ve started reading trashy sword-and-sorcery novels, including the series A Game of Thrones, which is like Lord of the Rings, only instead of sweet-natured hobbits and wizards, there are dwarves who have sex with whores and grisly decapitations every other page. I’ve gone through the five stages of a breakup, too. Those stages are, in order: love, hate, love, hate and love. What about the “pleading with Jesus” stage, you ask? Done.

I’ve even gone through “The Dead Zone,” which is named for that early ’80s documentary about how Chris Walken has psychic powers and when he touches you, he can see your future. Only in my case, every time I touch one of the shirts she left at my place or her leopard print Snuggie, I immediately remember whispered promises, midnight giggles and shared sighs of contentment. So, I’ve run her shirts through a paper shredder I bought at Staples and set them on fire in my bathtub. I’ve also scrubbed every place her feet ever touched with a toothbrush and Ajax. I’ve stapled trash bags all over my couch and I’ve dragged my bed to the corner. I sleep in a pile of crumpled up newspapers on my bare bedroom floor.

So everything is ducky. Yesterday, I held the door for a woman and SHE SMILED AT ME and I ran after her and told her I’d love her forever and ever and that we’d grow old together and never be apart. But that was just a fling. One of, literally, dozens of secret flings I’ve had, and by “secret flings,” I mean that all of the women who I’m having flings with don’t know we’re having flings, especially those women who are entirely imaginary. Make no mistake, this space ranger has explored Planet Vagina plenty o’ times, a long, long time ago. Seriously, the truth is I’m kind of dating someone. She works for a “company” in Langley, Virginia and she’s not on Facebook or Twitter and you can never meet her and if I talk anymore about her, she’ll have to kill me, ha ha.

But I’m fine. Why, this past Saturday night, I went to a spoken word open mike and read my new poem, which I titled “Uhhhhh…” Then later, I went home and watched a new TV show called “The NuWave Infrared Oven” which is hilarious. It’s a sitcom about the hottest oven on the market that can cook a frozen pork roast in 90 minutes, leaving it brown on the outside and juicy and moist on the inside, and its wacky friends, a really happy lady and a sexless fat man. During the whole show, I just cried and cried and cried. After that, I put some toenail clippings in an envelope and mailed them to her, because in the future, the only way she’ll be able to get back with me is if she clones me because then, in the future, I’ll be a happy, happy as s**t and 75 years old. I finished my night playing the game “Pretending To Call Her Voicemail And Singing ‘You’re Beautiful’ By James Blunt.” Fun. That game always puts me to sleep, sometimes for 12 hours.

Yeah. There it is. I’m good. I’m good, bro. I’m over it.

Oh, for f**k’s sake, who am I kidding.

Follow John DeVore’s preening narcissism on Twitter.

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