Prepackaged Responses To The Question, “Why’d You Break Up?”
Expected but rarely warranted, the why-did-your-relationship-end question may be even more despicable than the why-are-you-single question. After all, asking someone why their relationship drank Drano implies that you have a vested interest in one’s sacred bond with another person—you don’t. This is not an US Weekly interview, I am not Jennifer Lopez, and unless your name is ‘Whiskey,’ I don’t want to talk to you right now. Shoo, and turn the light off on your way out.
Because such a question deserves a condescending answer, here are a few for you to memorize and use at your discretion. Enjoy!
“I just wasn’t in it for the long haul, you know? I mean, yeah, we were together for seven years, two of which we were engaged, but then I woke up one day and thought—wait a tic, I’m about to marry this person I love? This was after she’d left for a few days to sleep on her friend’s couch, to sort through some uh, doubts she was having, but yeah—I decided, after spending two weeks alone in the home we’d built together, that I was just over it.”
“It’s a funny story, actually. So I’d had this really terrible day at work, just god-awful. All I wanted to do was go home and slit my wrists, hehe, you know? So I get home, and there he is—balls deep in my best friend. Like, talk about a surprise party! Yeah, haven’t talked to either of them since.”
“Ever had the urge to rip someone’s heart out? Just totally destroy them to the point where they never trust anyone again? I did. Totally wanted to just murder the faith of that awesome girl, so I pulled the plug. I was a total dick about it too, heh. You know how it goes.”
“Well, after ingesting each other’s fluids for two years, we decided it’d be better if we were just friends. After all, I’ve definitely had intimate contact with all of my friends’ taints. Who hasn’t? That’s totally normal. We’re getting brunch this weekend so he can talk to me about his girl problems. Yep, normal. Business as usual.”
“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but he put on a ton of weight and I just didn’t wanna bang him anymore. Would you? Be honest.”
“I met this mysterious girl at a bar two weeks ago and she blew my girl out of the water—total babe. So I dumped my girlfriend and the new babe—Gina, I think–she moved in yesterday. I think it’s going to be one hell of a relationship.”
“I’ve been single since 1996—has it really been that long since I’ve seen you? Oh, oh. That guy. Uh… what’s his face… right, right… John. He was married, long story.”
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These discourses, these models of life, are insidious, egregious, and soul crushing.
I cannot see the middle of a relationship at the beginning, but I can see the end from the middle. I know that there will be an end. There has to be. This is just a stop on the road.
I could walk to Celebrate Brooklyn all summer along. I’d learn how to start running. I’d eat meals of happy chickens at the commune across the street.
Kush got me selfie o’clock twitpic.com/ff3880