Thursday, November 14, 2013


           We’ve all been there.
The break-up.
All the hopes and excitement put into the basket of dreams. Then some sick bunny with a meat cleaver and a bloodied butcher’s apron comes to tear it to pieces.
It’s not our faults, why it hurts so much when someone (or yourself) decides to ‘move on’. I’ve found it almost impossible to ‘move on’ from any of my ex’s. Maybe its my inherit loyalty that not even for my own good can I shake. Hell, if any of my ex’s walked into this café right now, I would be compelled by some odd force to charm them, to make them smile, and at least get them to share a congenial drink with me, no matter what flying ball of fire our relationships may have ended in.
It’s a lie Hollywood perpetuates to the public. True love. Shit, I’ve had handful of ‘true loves’, and I’ve been very lucky in my life. And just because it doesn’t last forever, doesn’t make it any less real or awesome. Love is not something you can keep in a glass jar without it suffocating. But the mindless popcorn machine carries on, and we pay 12 dollars a ticket to keep it alive in our hearts.       
We’ve watched a thousand movies regarding the matter, about couples who try to make the ‘big dream’ work out. There's always the dumb male, the guy who takes solace in his hockey games and beer, and a sly woman, always 3 steps ahead of the goof she fell for, patiently standing with her hands on her hips and wry smile. There’s some schlocky schism that occurs during the play, he messes up, spends too much time with his buddies and doesn’t ‘listen’. But learns eventually that life is more than just a series of wins for his home team.  
But maybe it’s the lady and she’s the one with the problems. She wakes up one Sunday morning, peeks out through the condo they mutually spilt in downtown Chicago (can you already see Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn playing these characters?) and there’s her beau, frumpy in a sports jersey, munching on some potato chips and raising his hands in the air when his team scores. She has the realization: “I deserve more than this.” Then the rest of the film is about her moving on, and in the end, after a myriad of less than fruitful dating partners, realizes her original man knows her just so and everything ends up roses.
Both of these scenarios are obviously ‘love porn’ (i.e. completely unrealistic in practice). The schlub guy in the first run will never stop drinking beer and loving hockey, and he shouldn’t have to, and maybe he should tell his nagging girlfriend to get some hobby for herself other than giving him shit.
And the woman in the second scenario, looking at the guy she knows ‘she’s deserves more’, does just that—goes out and gets another more stand up dude, better looking with a little more cash. Simple as that. Natural selection. Survival of the prettiest.
This is the reality. Break-ups never end. It doesn’t. Just like a drug addict, you will always want the drug, you simply have to remove it from your being and space. But also like drug addicts, you can’t tell them anything, and they are going to do what ever they are going to do. So if you folks are going to continue to fall in love/break up/listen to Eliot Smith records alone high on Percocet, The Bartender is here (we are always here for you, injured drinker) to give a couple of tips on how to assuage the bleeding heart.


Seriously, stop. Do not pick up the phone to fight them. Don’t. Stop with the texts, stop with the Facebook, stop with the unbearable urge to call them in the middle of the night and vent/scream/insult/attack/slander/cry/profess love/beg to come back. No. No. No. No.
This is why the days before cell phones were lovely. You could put the phone off the hook, unplug it, and that would be that. Disconnection. Now breaks up are harder to dissect that pulling a thousand shards of glass from the skin of a car crash victim.
I know you want to call them. I know you want to yell and get it all out once and for all. But like I said, there is no end. The black hole goes on forever. Aim for Venus, folks. It’s a much prettier place.


Shit. It’s hard enough to stay off alcohol/drugs in day to day affairs, let alone after a ravaged break up. But seriously guys, taking that extra Xanex, pounding four shots of whiskey after chugging 10 Budweiser’s is not going to be a good look at the bars. Okay, do all of that at home, sure, and save your self some dignity. Trust me, I’ve been there. There once was blonde named after a wonderfully haunted little town in Georgia I was wrapped up around like a elastic band. And because of a couple horrid situations, I then proceeded to loose my shit—publicly. Yep. Weeping at bars. Throwing pint glasses. Arguing with friends. All the nasty things that come along a broken heart. Lick your wounds in your bedroom. Scream in the shower. Break glasses in your kitchen. But once you cross the barrier into public life, you are now subjecting everyone to your madness. And then you will start seeing people back away slowly from you as if they smell a strange odor.     

The old, wise adage I wish I invented:
“Nothing makes you forget one person like lying naked in the arms of another.”
After such self-esteem murder, a break up can leave you feeling as attractive as the dog shit under the heel of a hipster on Bedford Avenue. It’s tough, that’s for sure. In fact, it’s completely, unbelievably, horrifically shattering to the ego for anybody. Especially if there was some cuckolding involved. Christ. It’s enough to make someone slit their wrists with barbed wire and watch the pools of blood shine off the dark lamppost light in the gutter.
But if you can muster the strength, please, above all else, sleep with someone. This will help in three ways:
a) makes you feel that at least someone wants you still.
b) it’s hard to think about someone else when someone is going down on you.
c) at least, when you lie there feeling guilty/bad/used, its better than throwing glasses in your kitchen, screaming in the shower and taking drugs and alcohol in public, making a nasty example of your own theater of pain for all the world to see. You are not Christ. Only one person is allowed on the cross.

Just know, dear reader, that I am with you. I know because I been there. You are not the first person to have been lied to by Hollywood and you shall not be the last. This should bring you some comfort. Just start a new profile on OK Cupid. Name it BROKENHEARTBROOKLYN. Somebody will come to your aid. Or just come with you.
Either one will work.   

Till next time!





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