Last night I got dumped via text message. And it fucking SUCKED.
It’s made me think about some boys I haven’t been interested in, whom I may not have treated the best. I mean, I could have come out and been honest. I could have given them a phone call. Text messages are just so blow-offy and passive aggressive. They say the wrong thing all the time, no matter what the actual text says.
So I propose that we all adopt a new system of telling each other we aren’t interested: more of a round-table discussion type of thing. You just go to this place with a bunch of booths, you meet up for about half an hour and tell each other what’s up. Then you shake on it. Can you imagine how much better these things would be if people just did that? I mean, I guess the concern was that someone would lose their shit and fly through the roof and be a scary bitch, but in most circumstances I think it would work out pretty well.
I can confirm that this type of severance would be much more manageable than a 10pm Sunday night text message. But I guess this is what you get when you go around grinding boys’ balls into the pavement and laughing about it like a maniac. Someone comes along and grinds yours.
My inbox hurts!
I’ve only ever written one love letter, and the boy I gave it to responded by “coming clean” about the fact that he had a girlfriend, and had the entire time we knew each other, and had just asked her to marry him. He confessed that his dalliance with me was a symptom of cold feet.* Then he told me that he’d used bits of the love letter, and other correspondence from me, to serve as dialogue for a female character (with a man’s name) in the script for a television show pilot he’d just sold to Fox for $7,000.
(Some of you already know this story. I know, I know.)
Do you know what it’s like to watch the new Fox show lineups on the off chance that this show is actually made, and some man-hating bartending actress ends up broadcasting my personal correspondence??
Now that guy was a stupid motherfucker.
I do not write love letters anymore.
*This is when I coined the term “Rachel Bilson” as a verb, as in “Don’t fucking Rachel Bilson me” and “Are you Rachel Bilsonning me right now?!” meaning, of course, don’t treat me like Zach Braff treats Rachel Bilson in that awful, awful, AWWFUL movie The Last Kiss, which is about pretty, successful, happy assholes who fuck around before they get married and make up for it with a Coldplay soundtrack.
What’s great is when someone has a crush on you, and they tell you every chance they get how great you are.
What sucks is when they suddenly STOP having a crush on you, and their friends start telling you how great they think someone else is.
It’s like a nice clean little bullet hole through the forehead, one that everyone at the party can see, one that they all want to put their finger in to make sure it’s real.