I have a friend at work who is going through a bad breakup. When a woman you know has broken up with their boyfriend or husband, there are certain obligations you have being a fellow member of the female sex. These are:
1) To point out every flaw the bastard has, call him an asshole as much as possible, and remind her that she deserves better.
2) To get your friend as drunk as possible (if you can get her drunk AND laid, there are bonus points.)
3) To share a few pints of Ben and Jerry's with her, followed by shots of whipped cream and chocolate sauce, followed by a pie, and perhaps an entire box of chocolates.
4) To start ugly rumors about the ex-bastard's misshapen and limp penis.
5) To help burn and shred every piece of clothing the ex-bastard left in your friend's house.
With men, it is different. If a man has a friend who is broken up with a woman, his obligations usually begin and end at #2. After that, his mind is usually occupied trying to figure out how to get into bed with his friend's ex. I am not bashing males here ... I am merely pointing out the difference between men and women.
I've been pretty lucky in my life as I've only had one bad breakup where my girlfriends were needed to help get me through without being arrested or committed.
A guy I was about to move across the country for, to a state that only dumb-shit cowboy presidents would live in called me up with a guilty conscience one day and confessed that he had cheated on me with his ex-girlfriend. This was on my lunch hour, by the way.
He then told me he still wanted me to move in with him though, because hey, he loved me. Apparently so much he couldn't keep his dick in his pants.
I don't remember exactly what I said when he revealed this to me. I know I said it loudly, perhaps in a shriek of some kind that cracked glasses. I vaguely remember the words "ASS HOLE, FUCKER, BAD LAY" coming out of my mouth, possibly followed up with "I HOPE SHE GAVE YOU V.D. AND YOUR DICK ROTS OFF." I really can't be sure. I do remember that my editor spared me a mildly concerned glance. After all, it is not all that unusual to hear this kind of language in a newsroom. Our job, after all, is to COMMUNICATE. But I seemed to be doing it with more passion than normal on a work day.
After slamming down the phone, I thought I could just get back to work. Like hell was I going to have some asshole effect my productivity. But writing a story on the upcoming policeman's ball was just not engaging enough to stop my fantasies about driving his cheating ass out into the middle of the wilderness, stripping him, securing him to a tree, and tying a raw steak to his dick for the animals to eat.
So I went home early. I had every intention of just taking a few hours to cry, get over him, and move on. I flopped on the couch, turned on the TV, and every advertisement I saw, every show that was on, had something to do with romance, couples, or sex. The only channel that was safe was Cartoon Network. So I settled down to watch a Looney Toon Marathon.
Thirty-eight hours later I was still lying there in front of the TV, fantasizing about dropping an anvil on Cheating Prick's head, Roadrunner style. I hadn't showered. Hadn't slept. The only thing I had eaten was cold corn out of a can because it seemed like I should eat, but I didn't have the energy to do anything else.
Sometime during that day and a half, I had left a tearful, hysterical message on my best friend's cell phone. I had also called a friend from work and told her something happened between me and Asshole and I was taking a "personal day."
As I was lying there with bloodshot eyes, flies buzzing around my unwashed body, cold corn spilled down the front of me, the friend from work knocked on the door.
"OH MY GOD," was all she had to say when she saw me. "HE'S A TOTAL SLIME FOR DOING THIS TO YOU. HE SHOULD DIE." She had brought me French Fries and a chocolate milk shake, completing the fulfillment of both #1 and #3 obligations. She then preceded to promise to call everyone in the state of dumb-shit cowboy presidents to tell them about my ex's limp, deformed penis (#4).
She left after I promised I would eventually shower and not eat any more corn out of a can.
About an hour later, there was another knock on the door. My best friend, who lives 2 1/2 hours away across a mountain pass, had called in sick to work herself so she could drive over and see if I'd killed my ex yet. If I hadn't, she was determined to help me finish the job.
"OH MY GOD YOU STINK," she said when I answered the door. She hauled my ass to the bathroom and demanded I shower.
It took some doing on her part, but she managed to get me looking somewhat presentable and drove me to the nearest bar, where she poured liquor down my throat until I couldn't see (#2). When I was good and wasted, she brought me home and we set fire to a couple shirts that Dickhead had left at my house (#5). She then threw a blanket over me when I passed out.
The next day, after throwing up, I felt quite a bit better. All my wallowing, drinking and crying seemed to have cleansed me somehow. And I owed it all to my peeps ... the women in my life who knew that I would some day have to return the favor and bring them ice cream and fried foods before getting them drunk and laid.
I am happy to be part of that sisterhood, and will gladly uphold my obligations for my friend at work. I just need to go buy some icecream and a fifth of tequila, and I'm ready to help set her on the road to healing. It's my duty ... as a woman.