Post-coitum-brake-up

Why are relationships sometimes so fucking hard to manage? Not hard in the penile sense, but hard in the I-really-can't-get-this-sudoku sense. At the moment I am 4-5 (I stopped counting after New Year's) months into what could be called post-coitum-brake-up. Of course, I've always seen it in those movies where someone like Carmen Electra with unnecessarily large breasts would be crying into hankerchiefs and still have perfect make up (and digesting sinful amounts of double stuffed Oreos but still looking perfectly fuckable), but I must admit, I didn't see all this drama flying my way and smack-dabbing me in the face. Post-coitum-brake-up time really is just shit (no use saving up on invectives, it just wouldn't do it).

Of course, I don't find it strange that after being together for over a year (that's more than 365 days of quality couple shtuff - good/great sex, movies, dinners, vacations, skinny dipping ect.), two people might find it hard to avoid one another. And however it goes down (who on who, or rather who at who), its always going to be a shit time. My ex-significant gave me about a handful of reasons why he left me. Amongst which were stereotype, boredom and another woman. If someone doesn't feel like shooting their brains out after such a blatently put statement then they definately must be made out of stone or be on LSD. But after all this, I still have a hard time deleting him from the list of my emergency contacts.

It isn't even about how its put, where, whether its over candlelight, over getting someone so drunk they can't remember it and read it in a text message the next day (yes, that did happen to me) or at a bus stop while your bus is just arriving - "Ba-bye Honey, just so you know, I want us to brake up. Now off you go!" (unfortunately, that happened to me as well). It's merely in the fact that it happens. It always feels like the end of an era and I'm not surprised that many people find themselves wearing pink togas on a Ferris wheel in the middle of Vienna not being to remember anything during Post-coitum-brake-up time. No wonder, after endless days of "Hey Gorgeous, want to do it in my parents' bed?'" and various other intimacies, being thrust back into "reality" can be quite harsh.

So how does one "move on"? I dislike the phrase itself. What, are we talking about furniture here?! But in any case, starting fresh is never easy. Is it really good to throw out all old pictures, burn all the foolish stuffed crap (thankfully I don't have any of that in my EX-files stash), get new hair and a "I'm fabulous" tattoo on your ass? Well, different things work for different people. For me, the hard nut to crack was, and is, realizing that it's o v e r. No "let's be fuck buddies and pretend it works", no "we can completely have normal conversations", no "wanna go to the movies, as friends?". None of that stuff. This seemingly awesome plans gets difficult only when the X-significant other gets all ballistic that i.e. you don't put a smiley face into every goddamn sentence you send. Oh well, brace up ladies! Shit needs to be fought with a head held high.