Winning the Break Up: The Art of War
The only thing better than falling in love with somebody is breaking up with them. The first few weeks after the break up are filled with sabotage, manipulation, tantrums, and alcohol- it’s like all of my favorite things wrapped up into one.
My biggest strength is probably my ability to make a really great sad playlist, that and my ability to say “That’s cute!” in a really bitchy way, also I curated my purse collection really well. I currently have two playlists devoted breakups. One is called “Breakup: Betrayal/Dying Alone.” It’s a collections of tunes that make you want to drink wine while sobbing or Facebook stalking him or maybe drowning yourself in a lake. The second is called “Breakups: Independent Woman/A Whole New World”; that playlist is more catered to looking at yourself in the mirror while mentally playing out the conversation you’re going to have when you run into your ex after losing weight and possibly winning some awards. (Adele is really living the dream when it comes to this encounter.) You need to be listening to the second playlist.
Facebook is the post-break up battlefield. It’s important to put statuses that will make your ex jealous like “Having so much fun at the beach!” or “It’s true what they say about going black!” Just don’t put ambiguous song lyrics because that will make you seem desperate and poor.
You are going to have the urge to change your hair, resist it. One time after a break up I got a pink streak put in my hair. It was tacky and an obvious cry for help and sometimes I still wake up in cold sweats when I dream about it. My one friend’s boyfriend cheated on her with a sorority girl that carried a Vera Wang bag and had an ankle tattoo. It was so vulgar that my friend kept her hair in cornrows for a month. Break ups are a time when you need to look your best, not work out trust issues on your hair. If you run into your ex and you have a mullet, guess who’s winning that break up? Not you.
I recently had a life changing moment where I realized I need to become a ballerina. Or, really what I realized is that I already am a ballerina, I just don’t do ballet. Most people went through this phase when they were six. But when I was six I wanted to be a baby doll and since I’ve pretty much already done that (big eyelashes, motionless, fake, etc.) so I guess I’m finally ready to go through my ballerina phase.
Now I know that you are getting ready to suggest that I take an adult ballet class so I’m just going to stop you right there. No. Everyone in adult learning classes is a freak and smells like hot-dog water. They are the exact opposite of ballerinas. And I can almost guarantee you that the aura of the room that the class is taught in would not be conducive to the art of ballet, so lets just move on.
They say dress for the job you want, not the job you have. So I decided that going shopping for things that said “edgy ballerina” would be the most important part of my career change. It was super convenient because I was already on my way to the mall when I realized my calling was dance. I bought a Chanel chiffon colored nail polish (PS- the woman at the make up counter tried to sell me a glittery lip-gloss. It was so vulgar), light pink Missoni dress, and huge red cape for a statement piece.
I was so wiped out from shopping that I decided to lie in my room of mirrors and channel great dancers instead of practicing. I woke up ten hours later to my cleaning lady taking my pulse. I overdose on Xanax once and suddenly she’s a nurse. Anyway, it wasn’t until she brought my new clothes into my room the next day I even remembered my fling with ballet. My mind was too focused on how to buy some Adderall from my high school neighbor so I’ll eat less than my sister in law at dinner. I’ll always look back on my dance career fondly, but sometime you have to put your dreams aside for more important things- like tricking people into thinking you have an eating disorder to get attention.
Saint Patricks Day! (don’t make me drink beer or wear green)
On the surface it might seem like I would like Saint Patrick’s days since I find it calming when groups of people are dressed in the same color palette and I enjoy days that work to erase the stigma of day drinking. I don’t really remember last SPD because the green pill I took in an effort to be festive made me a little hazy when I mixed it with a series of vodka shots but I heard I had a really good time. And I think that’s true because I have vague memories of getting lots of attention.
But the ugly truth is I hate Saint Patrick’s Days. And don’t try to make this an anti-Irish thing because it isn’t. Colin Ferral is from an Irelandish place and I’ve written him a love letter once a year since my 16th birthday. Also, I’ve thought about dying my hair red for the past two weeks, which is extremely Celtic. (Although, I don’t like river dancing but that’s because I took much acid before I saw “Lord of the Dance” and tried to get on stage with them to stop their legs.)
The main thing that I don’t like about Saint Patrick’s Day is having to wear green. I have green eyes and they don’t like to feel in competition with my ensembles. I try to honor that whenever I can, but on SPD people pinch me on my arm for not wearing green. A) I hate when strangers/people/friends/family touch me. B) If I so much as sense that the person felt arm fat when they pinched, I basically want to throw myself in front of a bus. C) It’s pretty much a hate crime. If you have the right coloring to pull of green, then more power to you but I’m guess you don’t so lets just drop it.
Second, I don’t like when people pressure me to drink beer. If I wanted to be with people who bullied me into chugging beer I would have joined a sorority and as you can tell my lack of Victoria Secret Sweatpants and Hunter’s rain boots, I obviously did not join a sorority. I don’t understand why I can’t just drink my gin and tonic in peace without some boy in a backwards hat trying to force me to drink a warm can of dyed green calories. I don’t force them to change from their flip-flops to a more masculine shoe, so they shouldn’t try to change me.
I also don’t really like when people show emotion in public. On Saint Patrick’s everyone is cheering and singing and hugging; the whole thing is just so off putting. I’ve always been much more into showing up right before the party ends and looking bored in the corner. When people show their emotions to each other it makes me feel really embarrassed for them and also a tad anxious.
So basically tomorrow is my personal hell. I can’t even go into the gay-brhood to escape the tackiness like I do for 4th of July. I’m basically just going to keep to myself tomorrow. I’m going to go out, get drunk, try to convince people that Kelly is abusing diet pills, maybe expose everyone’s secrets or start I text war. Hopefully, I’ll end the night with a peaceful cab ride home from a driver who is fun poor and not scary poor.
If there is one thing I love more than bottles of vodka with great packaging (there isn’t) it’s sleeping in till 4pm. I’m trying to grow my bangs out so I need about twice as much sleep as the average newborn. But now the time has come to wake up before noon because sleeping in late should be taken as seriously as any other signs you need to pull your life together- like eating fast food in your car or having a Gmail account or buying something on eBay from a buyer with poor reviews just to feel a rush. So I’m waking up at 11. Basically, I’m saying, “Yes” to life.
The first day of waking up at 11am wasn’t easy. I bit my gardener and also cried while shopping at Trader Joes. The day felt so long without naps and I wanted to quit so many times. But I reminded myself that if I can go ten years without eating bread than I can definitely do this. I did and it was worth it. I passed out at 10:30 at night with the lights on and woke up confused, surrounded by stolen jewelry, having had the best night sleep of my life.
It’s worth noting that I woke up at 6am, which would be great if I was a fucking mailman. But since I’m using this time to practice the Buddhist art of ‘not doing’ it was basically a disaster. I spent the next few hours in bed, thinking of ways to get back at people which was super relaxing. Then I had eggs for breakfast and that made me feel super middle class. Overall, today has been a mixed bag but then again so is life.
Full Blog at http://sharkshirt.wordpress.com/2012/03/13/betrayed/
I don’t try to hide the fact the my dermatologist is the most important person in my life. If yours isn’t then you need to find a new one. I’m pretty sure Dr. Mish is high on drugs half the time and I still let her give me shots in my face. That’s the kind of trust you need. (On a side note, I view her intoxication as plus because I feel it gives her the courage to try more extreme dermatological procedures.)
So you can imagine how happy I was when I found my dad was going in for a tune up tomorrow. Wrong. If he thinks he can come home-wreck my skin care then he clearly knows nothing about me or my undying loyalty to things/people that make me prettier/thinner. Also, it kind of goes with out saying that perfect skin is my thing and I don’t know why he’s trying to take that from me.
I’m pretty much left with two options.
1) Sabotage. Sabotage is typically my go to plan in any situation. It’s really important to maintain the power dynamic in your relationships- and if that means ruining someone’s diet or med school apps then so be it. If they care at all about the friendship they’ll thank you later, trust me. I could call in a bomb threat to the derm office tomorrow. “Sorry Dad, guess you can’t go anymore!”
2) Acceptance. This is obviously the more annoying options but my Mat Pilates teacher told me that I’m harboring a lot of anger in my shoulders and if I let that go I could maybe drop a dress size. Translation: Maybe I could schedule a chemical peel for tomorrow. Going through facial transitions together is a great way to bond.
Red Hair, Super Care
Posted: March 9, 2012 Filed under: Uncategorized | Modify: Edit this
Obviously everyone is dying his or her hair red right now. I’m over it. I’m obsessed it. I’m jealous of it. I hate it. I don’t know weather to push it away or let it in.
Unlike my perfect bone structure, my blonde hair is not natural. My coke dealer’s boyfriend does my hair every two weeks. It’s painstaking and time consuming- not to mention the coffee situation at their salon is atrocious- buts it always been worth it because blond use to be coveted, like the Tommy Hilfiger before rappers started wearing it.
Now red hair has arrived like a cute girl transferring into your school midyear. Suddenly, busty red heads are all over the runway and the cover of Vogue. Suddenly, I’m supposed to apologize for thinking the ethereal drug addict look is cute. (See Gemma Ward.)
Why is this happening to me? Is it because of the Ambien induced fist fight/food binge I got into the other night? Is it because I got my boyfriends maid deported?
I like to indulge in trends, and red tresses are tres chic at the moment. But my blonde hair is such a part of me. The last time I gave away apart of myself I sold my two bottom ribs on the black market so I could fit into a size triple zero dress. I was able to cope with that because I was thinner than the person DJing the party. Last time I got two inches cut off my hair I cried in bed for three weeks straight, only getting up to apply my Latisse eyelash cream. My aroma-therapist think I’m not ready to go through another hair change quite yet.
wow, camaflage really does work