19 Ways To Break Up With Someone
Tell them your company is relocating you and then just… never move.
Becoming progressively more of an asshole until they are forced, through frustration and exhaustion, to break up with you. You get to be the good guy!
Skywriting. And make sure to put the little heart with the arrow through it at the end.
Not doing anything, and waiting for them to just find out that you’re sleeping with someone else through the grapevine, like a true gentleman and scholar.
Throwing a brick through their window with “SORRY” written on it in blood.
On Empty Sex
Do you have a brother, one that teases you? Or a sister, you share shoes with? Which neighborhood abode on your street do you remember best? The one that housed your best friend with the red trim and the white shutters? Or the tiny wooden cabin with the sweet old couple that always made shortbreads and lemonade? Do you like to be fucked from behind? Do you prefer to be taken slow and sweetly, or quick and roughly? Will you scream when you cum? Will you run your nails down my back when I slip inside of you?
I place my palm against her cheek, letting my fingers run through her long brown tresses and gently thumb her ear. Her hair is made of silk and smells of fresh flowers and female musk. I move her jaw towards mine and there is fire. My curious attraction instantly morphs into an all-consuming desire. Time, which had (up until now) been crawling past me, sluggishly creeping from moment to moment, now became a violent twister, playing a game of tag with my desire. I thrust her slight body against the kitchen wall and begin to lift. Our lips tangle with one another, and never dare to part. She tastes sour and coppery, but I like it. I want this, need this, must have this.
Suddenly, it hits. I set her down and let my mouth hover over hers for a moment. Empty. This is empty. The entirety of my passion rapidly drains, taking the colour in my cheeks along with it. This is empty writing. This is empty sex. We are empty people.
I look into her eyes and forcefully pull her towards me. We tear ravenously at each other’s clothes and fuck wildly on the kitchen tiles. The harsh, cold ceramic eats at my knees while my nipples make instantaneous tracks along the glistening sweat of her stomach. My wrists begin to ache as she cums, and she screams, not unlike how I imagined. I stand back and survey my conquest: the curves of her hips, the dew on her forehead, the stringy wet hair plucking from her crown. She is beautiful, for a second. She is both my horror and my savior. Throwing my dress over my head, I turn and walk out the door into the cold, stale night. Embers of a cigarette spit at my knuckles. So what, then, was the point? We are nothing, and this is nothing; but does this weightlessness negate it’s own significance? My heavy shoes create hollow thump thumps as I trod down the stairs and into the darkness.
- Hannah: What does it feel like to be loved so much?
- Marnie: I don't know, I can't feel it anymore.
Just sent this to A:
“in lieu of my previous comment to you, i do fucking adore you. we just jive together, like cocaine and waffles. i would like to mouthhug you EVERYWHERE. being with you is like drinking a hundred bottles of whiskey while someone licks your tits. i like you so much that if i were one of those weird elementary-school-mindset sort of girls, i’d totally call you pet names. i’d probably go with sugarcock. i’d like to stay up late with you, drinking cheap wine, eating mangoes, wearing a sheer dress, smoking menthol cigarettes, being licentious as fuck, while forgetting all my obligations. also, you’re fucking gorgeous, so fucking gorgeous, you look like cocaine on carrara marble. you’re always so smooth and dapper and shit that my dopamine levels jump all over the place. the end. fuck you.”
My boyfriend got angry at me the other day. I don’t remember what it was about. All I remember was the heat of his rage, pounding my small frame in waves and being terrified of the look in his eyes. He looked me straight on and said, “You’re so fucking beautiful and you’re such a fucking idiot, because you don’t even see it. You think you’re this shitty little person who doesn’t deserve anything, but you’re the best. The best. And you’re an idiot.”
I saw a post on tumblr, one of those iPhone text bubble posts. It said the same thing. I couldn’t help but piteously laugh at the tragically disparate undertones. One, a sweet remark in awe of another’s beauty. The other, a cynically roused epithet of resentment. Human relationships are not so simple as a script. The words can be there, but they hold more than letters and fonts and emphasis. They contain entire worlds of arguments past, the sound of zippers, laughter muffled by skin, the soft silk of lips in the early morning, fists that push, doors that slam, and arms that hold so tight, the blood stops. My heart rocks back in forth in my chest, and I feel it’s home getting raw underneath my bones. My arms ache from holding you, placating you, promising you things I know I’ll never keep. It’s okay; you won’t notice.
It was then, when my arms seemed too heavy to lift, as if the gravity of our relationship sank into my very marrow, that I walked away. I promised myself no more torture, no more violent tornados of hate supposedly masking love, no more destruction. I very literally stood up, and praised my calves for straightening my wavering body. The first step was lingering, as if I hoped you’d plead for me to stay. The second was powerfully intentional, and filled with a desperate determination. What happened next, was unexpected. You grabbed my ankle in motion, and pulled my thigh close. I looked down at your ruffled hair, and saw what looked like a child. You looked like a child on the verge of tears, lip quivering, asking his mother to stay, please, stay, don’t go. You looked terrified. Suddenly, you straightened the anchored legs beneath you and stood beside me. Our hands intertwined, and your grip hardened. “Let’s go,” you breathlessly whispered into my ear, and with a kiss on the cheek, we left.