Let’s do this shit right, okay?

It’s cool — your latent commitment issues have finally begun to surface and you’ve got some psychotherapy you need to tackle, you met some new girl who you’ll soon realize will eventually make me look like a goddess, you’re moving to Alaska because your sociology degree isn’t landing you any job prospects and you’ve gotta get “off the grid” and ice fish your way to enlightenment, your parents want you to marry a Jackie instead of a Marilyn, etc. Whatever, man. I understand. I’ve got issues too.

But if you’re going to dump me, you better have the decency to dump me like the Queen I would be if I’d been born into a better family.

One wrong move and I’ll be sending the hearts of every man I meet into flames for years to come. Don’t do that to me, okay? I’ve heard rumors that Jake Gyllenhaal is going to be filming on location in my hometown and I mean, there are only so many bars within a five mile radius, so it’s basically in the bag at this point. If you don’t do it for me, at least do it for your unsuspecting brothers out there. You guys even have a saying for shit like this — “bros before hos,” is it? It’s charming, really, and us gals have one too. It’s Fuck You.

Anyway.

First of all, buy me a meal, preferably at a restaurant I’ve never been to before so you don’t taint any of my favorite spots with the announcement of your upcoming solo act. Don’t dump me at the restaurant though — I shouldn’t feel like I can’t yell at you or throw things in your general direction (the latter being entirely dependent on your reasoning for the separation).

Then, let’s go back to my place. It’s unfair to send me on the road in my upcoming potentially fragile state. You dump, you drive. The underlying idea here is that I shouldn’t be spending any money tonight. I need it for the hair appointment I’m going to make tomorrow to help me get over you. (Don’t feel bad — my roots were getting kind of gnarly anyway.)

And don’t tell me you want to “take a break” if what you really mean is that you think we should take two weeks apart so you can phase me out of your life. I’ve got things to do too, you know. Waiting around for you while you’re slipping out the bathroom window isn’t really an ideal situation for anyone. If you’re done, just be done.

Under no circumstances should you tell me that you still love me, and especially don’t tell me that you still want to be friends if you’re going to start electronically blacklisting me the second you close my front door.

If, for some really poorly evaluated reason, we decide to stay pals, I only want to sense one emotion from you for at least the next month and that emotion is complete and utter misery. The first thing people should be asking you when they see you is, “Dude, are you dying?” It goes without saying that means you’ll be keeping your “I’M A FREE MAN!” thoughts off of Facebook and to yourself. If you go out, it better be to drown your sorrow with some Jack, not to share wine coolers with unsuspecting college seniors. It’s just the right thing to do.

And whenever we run into each other, be polite. I mean, odds are, you’re not that great in bed and I was polite about that, so you kind of owe me. Just say hi, dude. Don’t make a beeline for the bathroom or pretend like there’s something in your eye. And especially don’t try tell me how hot I’m looking these days because, I mean, duh, and also, as if.

Or, I mean, we could just look into couples therapy.