Warning: My impending graduation has somewhat marred my standard skepticism. With that in mind, know that I am trying my best to keep my attitude as caustic as possible. You may sense a little more sympathy and understanding from me this week, but don’t be alarmed. I’m still a jerk. And with that being said ...
I have been avoiding the subject of break-ups because it seemed too easy to be cynical about. In fact, I’m pretty sure cynicism was invented by someone plagued with a broken heart. Today, however, I am resigning myself to talking about the miserable, grief-stricken suckers who have been callously thrown in the reject pile (sucks to be you).
Break-ups can be pretty rough. There are a lot of casualties — mostly things like t-shirts and CDs but once, caught up in all the trials and tribulations of a break-up, I left my undies at my ex’s. That was the worst. I thought about asking him to return that coveted pair of panties but, “Wanna get coffee? Could you bring my black Victoria Secret thong (the one with the little dog embroidered on the corner of it) with you, too? That’d be great; it’s my fav,” just sounded weird.
By now, most of us have been dumped. Our illusions of love have been shattered like the screen on my old iPhone (R.I.P. baby boy), and so we know how to put ourselves back together after someone has torn us down. It seems hard. No, it is hard. But I have this theory that when you get older, you become more immune to heartbreak. That might just be wishful thinking though. Old people probably feel just as wretched when they hear those fateful words: It’s not me, it’s you (I also have this theory that old people are more honest ...).
Anwhoodles, when love kicks the shit out of me, I usually start out with some wallowing. I let the self-pity take over and let me tell you, it’s gross. Sooner or later I realize that I’m better than this (!) and so begins the next phase, during which binge drinking, chain smoking and all other things deemed “cool” by our dazed society are fair game. This will last until I stop waking up feeling proud and start waking up feeling disgusted by the man, or trash can full of puke, I wake up next to. It’s the best post-break-up stage.
The semi-schizophrenic breakdown (SSB) is also worth mentioning here. The SSB is that ongoing internal struggle during which you simultaneously hate your ex, want to win him back and make him insanely jealous. It will take over your life. It will give you the unfortunate ability to relate to Taylor Swift songs. No, really, it will.
The SSB will hold you hostage. It’ll make you want to text your ex constantly (I hope you can resist). It’ll coerce you into stalking his Facebook until you have memorized every wallpost a girl has left him in the last month. It’ll make you consider dropping by his place of employment every time you drive by (which, if you’re as unlucky as I am, was two-three times a day one summer. Phuck you, dear internship that paid me too much money to do not enough work, for being placed precariously close to my ex’s summer job).
I’m sorry in advance for those of you who will make yourself sick over someone who I suspect is not worth it. But there is no pill to take, no cream to apply, no shot that can be administered that will make this process progress any faster. You just have to stop being a little bitch and get over it. Sorry, what I meant to say is, “I usually act like a huge loser after I get dumped so I totally can relate. And I’m sorry if the aforementioned descriptions of a sloppy Hazel have disheartened and depressed you, I (along with my buddy Angela) just found this topic to be rather timely.”
After four years, me and my main squeeze, the Big Red, are calling it quits. I’ve already decided to keep some of his things (no underwear, but some cutlery from West campus). This parting of ways will be hard on me. I will miss Cornell and I will miss our mutual friends — the ones who have seen me at my roughest but liked me enough to hang around for the ride. And so I want to take a hot minute to thank a few of my home girls and boys.
Anyone who has ever enjoyed reading my column — you have excellent literary taste.
Bonny, my fake boyfriend, for all the dates, G-chats and international adventures.
Dan and Eric, whom I can always count on for a debaucherous evening.
Dan-Dan and Hallie, for continually inspiring me to dress fashionably yet sleep naked.
Jorge, for so much more than I can say in this tiny bit of space.
Mike, for reminding me that decent men exist. And for letting me pee while handcuffed to you.
Peter, my big hunk o’ man, for not running away, even after being exposed to so many of my weirder facets. You are the peanut butter to my jelly.
Becca, Siobhan and Emily, the strangest people I know ... I just kidding. Thank you for making my life so much more interesting. I love you. Friends forever?
Hazel Gunapala is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. Appropriately Cynical appears alternate Thursdays this semester.