I’ve been dating this guy for the past month with whom I have absolutely nothing in common (fuck yeah, grammar). Imagine a giraffe dating Robin Williams. Sure, you could find similarities if you tried really, really hard: Some people consider giraffes to be funny looking, Robin Williams is a funny guy. Everyone recognizes giraffes when they see one, almost everyone recognizes Robin Williams. Giraffes have tongues, as does Robin Williams. See what I mean? Forced similarities. So that’s what it was like to date this guy, which led to many awkward silences and one night where I forgot that we were dating in the first place. After a series of instances I considered to be a little too morally degrading, even for a Lena Dunham fan such as myself (see posts The Night I Queefed and Talking Dirty Sucks Balls), I decided to call the whole thing off.
The night of said break-up began with our usual uncomfortable silences. A giraffe could have carried on a more cohesive conversation than the two of us floundering for words. After two painful minutes of “so…” and “ummm” and “holy shit why are we dating” – that last one may have been in my head – I decided to bite the bullet. I took a breath, assumed the appropriate facial expression of pity and regret, and before I could utter a word of deliverance I was interrupted by “Hey, so I think we should stop dating.” That SON OF A BITCH. Now, for those innocent lambs who have never been dumped, let me tell you that it’s not a pleasant ride on a carousel. Getting dumped sucks. It sucks massive amounts of balls. It doesn’t matter that it was mutual, or that our relationship never should’ve existed in the first place. I could’ve found out he was a neo-Nazi and getting dumped still would’ve sucked. And I just knew he had sensed the impending doom, but instead of taking it like a man, he chose to do the last selfish thing he could by stealing the upper hand. The worst part? The tear ducts called mutiny on me. I muttered some lame excuse (“I think a leaf is stuck on my windshield”) and ran out the door so I could embrace my feminine salty drops in solitude. The twatface now has the satisfaction of not only being the dumper, but never has to hear the barrage of complaints I had about his behavior that I never got the chance to say. It’s too late to call him up and say these things now. But that’s why I have a blog. Hell hath no fury like a scorned woman’s blog post.