Читать книгу It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken: The Smart Girl’s Breakup Buddy - Greg Behrendt - Страница 6

Long, long ago in a sad galaxy far far away, I was dating this stone-cold Superfox. And when I say dating, what I really mean to say is that I was sick in love with her, while she thought I was a “really good guy.” Needless to say, things fell apart. We had one of those awkward breakups where you’re living together and sleeping in the same bed but you’re not going out anymore. “Excuse me, I know you’re seeing someone else, but can I have some of that pillow?” Ouch. Who does that? Me, as it turns out. I was so smitten (read: in love with not getting what I want) with this girl that I was sure that if I was just near her, taking any crumb thrown my way and drinking myself to sleep every night, she’d find me attractive again and want my sad ass back. Well, it wasn’t long before she decided to bail. So off she went to New York to pursue her career, and, more important, her new man.

Now, you’d think that after someone leaves you for another person and moves to another city across the country you would get that it’s over, because it is. But I didn’t. I was in love with the romantic and ill-conceived idea that I could get her back. And how would I do that? Drunken late-night phone calls rife with begging and tears. Bravo! How hot is that? Sooooo not hot, and not the least bit effective, either. Not only was I dragging my heart through the muck, but also my dignity. I had managed to degrade myself even further—from someone she wasn’t in love with anymore to someone she pitied and avoided. Now, to be fair, this particular girl was patient and tolerant with me, but I was making life miserable for her. I began to alienate my good friends with my obsession, my work began to suffer, and I looked like shit. Even worse, I was drinking like it was the day before Prohibition.

Well, one night after too many tequila shots I figured I would blow in a call to Ms. New York City just to see if there had been any change in her insistence that she was not the girl for me. (Here’s where the story gets good.) She was living in the New York Paramount Hotel at the time, waiting for her apartment to open up. With the number committed to memory, I drunk-dialed…“Paramount Hotel,” said the fellow on the other end. Now realize this: It’s probably 2:30 A.M. Los Angeles time, making it 5:30 A.M. in New York. I don’t know the exact time because numbers weren’t making sense. Good start. So the desk clerk answers, “Paramount Hotel. How may I direct your call?” Well, I was so smashed that I couldn’t even pronounce my lady’s name. Seriously, I’d have made more sense if I’d just barked like a dog. The desk clerk said, “I’m sorry, sir, can you say that again?” I tried again, unsuccessfully. “Sir, perhaps you’d like to spell it?” (Oh my God, man! Have some self-respect. Put down the phone, Greg!) But I didn’t. I took a stab at spelling it. Finally, he understood whom it was that I was trying to reach. But right before he was about to put me through to her room he said the most amazing thing. He said, “Are you sure you want to make this call, sir?” What? I thought. Are you kidding me? Out of the drunken blackness came this anonymous voice of concern. “Am I sure I want to make this call?” And I had a moment. No, I thought, I don’t want to make this call. I’ve made this call before. This call never works out. This call always makes it worse. This call takes me further and further away from the place I want to be. Which is a place that is dignified and cool. “No,” I said. “I don’t want to make this call. Thanks.” And I hung up and passed out, fully clothed, the last shreds of my dignity still intact.

The next day, hungover and sad, I remembered the voice on the other end of the line. The voice that had said, “Are you sure you want to make this call?” I thought, Wouldn’t it be great if you had that voice in your head all the time? Your own personal breakup buddy, someone there to make sure you don’t make the bad phone call, the ill-advised drive-by, the decision to dress up in their clothes and pretend you’re them as a way of getting inside their thoughts? That’s why we’ve come up with this book. This book is that voice. We are the friends who care enough about you to make sure you do this thing right. Breakups hurt like a motherf*#ker, but they are not the end of the world. The pain is temporary, and if handled properly, they can even be life-changing. Our goal is to help you turn your breakup into the event that changes your life for the better. After all…you are a Superfox.