You just stormed out of his place, screaming, cursing his life, swearing you hate his dumb, selfish guts. It’s over, and the end was not pretty. In fact, it was super fucking heinous.
You’re reeling. You just lost your shit. Like… someone. Please. Help this girl (you) locate her shit, because it is LITERALLY nowhere to be found. You made a scene, and you feel like the most veritably psycho bitch on the planet.
You’re not crying (yet). You’re on your way home, immobile, staring at your phone, not knowing where to start. Who to text. What to say. You’re in shock. Did you really say that? Did he really say that? Did the neighbors hear? You’re clueless. You’ve never had an out-of-body experience, but tonight was distressingly close. Bitch, you need to breathe.
You really said that. So did he. It was… ugly. You loved each other. Shit, you probably still do. You don’t want him to have a miserable life. You don’t hate him. And now your regret is giving you acid reflux.
“FUCK. ME. WHY DID IT HAVE TO END LIKE THAT?”
You have this lovely, romantic idea of what a “good” breakup might look like. You’d wish each other the best after having beautifully tragic breakup sex. He’d kiss you and whisper something whimsically nauseating like, “I’ll always love you.” You’d leave a perfect, pink diamond-encrusted key to your heart on his bedside table. He’d always look for your scent on other women. It’d be fucking poetic.
But that poem, as pretty as it is, is a joke. That “good” breakup of your tear-soaked dreams is not your reality. Good. Because if you think exploding into a thousand I hate yous for one shitty night is hard… well, it is. It’s brutal. But worse still? Breaking up with someone without really breaking up, at all. Having a breakup so amicable, so sweet, so loving, that you can’t move the fuck on.
Untie yourself from him. Say “fuck you,” even if you don’t hate him, because yeah, FUCK him. Fuck him, fuck your breakup, fuck it all. Fuck the way you treated each other in the end. And fuck being “crazy” in love. You were wild for him, and when it started to crumble, all you could do was gape at the ruins of your relationship in furious disbelief. Fuck that.
Now, you’ve gotta do the only thing there is to do: You.
You’ve got to take all that rage you felt towards him in the *final hours* and turn it into something productive for you. You’ve got to laugh, because let’s face it: That breakup was fucking hilarious. Bravo should’ve been up in that bitch with a full camera crew and Andy Cohen on call to *unpack* the drama with you. And then you’ve got to start a new chapter of your bomb ass life. You don’t want to feel all those gooey attachments a “good” breakup would’ve engendered. Trust. You want to feel vindicated by your anger, and you want to keep it moving.
Fuck him, babe. Something good is happening.