Posts Tagged 'Love'

The Seven (and then some) Stages of a Break Up.

 1. Hurt/Angry: You’re angry and sad; you cry and you yell and cry some more because it hurts so bad and you feel so violated and you’re angry and just can’t stop until you pass out from exhaustion.

*Somewhere in between you start to remind yourself of something a friend once told you: “It’s OK when your heart breaks because…” but you can’t remember the rest so you just keep telling yourself, “It’s OK when your heart breaks. It’s OK.”

2. Shock: You go through your day-to-day life numbly; a hollow shell of your former self. You may even be able to talk about the break up without crying. The Hurt/Anger comes back sporadically during this time, the pain coming from your heart in small doses is released via tears.

3. Sadness: Deep, painful, unbearable sadness that renders you incapable of keeping your composure and the only thing running through your head is, “Why?” And you suddenly want everything to rewind and go back to normal and you want to start over but know you can’t and so you just keep crying until your eyes are puffy and your nose is raw and there’s a pile of crumpled tissues next to your bed and you tell yourself you’d rather be numb again or even bent over a toilet hungover; anything but what you feel now. Why? Why? Why?

This lasts for two days, but no more than three because you tell yourself you’re stronger than that and you remind yourself, “It’s OK when your heart breaks.”

4. Sadness Aftershocks: The sadness lingers, but is random. You feel the tears well-up when you have to talk about it, but you embrace and release, knowing that day-by-day it’s slowly fading and like a ship leaving the harbor, eventually it will be out of sight.

5. One Week: You hit the one-week-since-break-up mark without even realizing it and determine that starting now, there will be no more tears!

And there aren’t anymore. You experience quiet, quick moments of sadness but instead of dwelling on them, you move forward, past them. And for now, everything seems to be getting better…

6. Loss of Confidence: Self explanatory. You feel fat, ugly, dumb, etc. Generally unattractive as a whole. You wonder why guys don’t like you, why they cheat and then you feel worse that someone has robbed you of your confidence and you’re annoyed at yourself for letting them and that you’re feeling sorry for yourself and thinking this way in the first place! Annoyed! And fat!

*Somewhere in between these you actually miss him. But you loved him and you’re dealing with this break up and you’re lonely, so of course you would. Plus, you’re pms’ing and that’s what you chalk most (if not all) of these lonely feelings up to.

7. Man Hater Mode: You can’t stand them. You can’t stand the thought of being touched or kissed or holding hands. The thought of sex turns your stomach. You have to constantly pull yourself from a pessimistic place and remember the words of one of your oldest friends from the last time you went through a nasty break up: “You are not a man hater!” And this is what you constantly remind yourself, “I am not a man hater! I’m just going through a difficult time!” But you’re still having a hard time conversing (in a kind manner) with your male compatriots and you’re secretly hoping their romantic relationships crash and burn. And then you immediately feel absolutely terrible for thinking it (and actually writing it out!) and take it all back because, “I am not a man hater! I’m just going through a difficult time!”

Slowly all of this will fade and your confidence begins to reemerge and you stick with your current mantas, “It’s OK when your heart breaks” and “I am not a man hater! I’m just going through a difficult time!” and use the amazing, overwhelming, awe-inspiring love and support of your beautiful friends and family to help you heal. And you realize that while you may be jaded and pessimistic (and perhaps a bit self-deprecating), ultimately you haven’t given up on love. However, during this time you have also been contemplating the saying, “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all” and think that maybe Alfred Lord Tennyson was full of shit (or drunk) when he said that. And then you laugh to yourself because you’re (mostly) kidding. Mostly.

And life goes on…


I just can’t get enough…

of this song!

It speaks to me; I can relate (to the lyrics). As with any song, unless otherwise specified, you can pretty much interpret it anyway you like.  Dig it!

This will be my last confession/”I love you” never felt like any blessing/Whisper it like it’s a secret/Uttered to condemn the one who hears it/With a heavy heart

I’ve been cheating…

No, not on my taxes. On Jean-Paul. The imaginary boyfriend I mention in my bio. It’s true. It’s been going on for almost three months now.  I feel terrible about it and therefore feel compelled to fess up.  Someone not so imaginary has replaced him. While Jean-Paul and I will forever remain close, it’s just not going to work out. He’s imaginary.

Meet Hoops:

He drinks beer.

He has big muscley arms.

Here are his stats:




He does artsy things: guitar, photography, etc.

Gotta love a smart, attractive, well-rounded man who can make you laugh, no?

This is for you. And you. And especially you.

Many thanks to my amazing friend Carissa for bringing this to my attention and to Thought Catalog! Read it and weep. And more importantly, enjoy and appreciate.

“You Should Date An Illiterate Girl

By Charles Warnke

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

(Wo)man’s best friend.

I’ve got some pretty awesome roomies:

They’re also known (within the family) as “the most photographed dogs in the world”. But look at ’em! How could one not take a picture when they look like that and do the things they do. You want to capture every precious moment!

I think I am dying.

Actually, I know I am. Very slowly, every single day. But so is everyone else.

Please play this at my funeral (as well as the rest of the songs in the playlist I’ve entitled “I felt a funeral in my brain” in my personal journal.)

I just want to sleep for a week.

This is pretty awesome.