My friend Dave once told me that breaking up with his ex-girlfriend was harder than having her simply up and die on him.

At first I thought that a bit harsh, but once he explained it to me I came around.

A mourning period is more acceptable when someone croaks than when they simply clean out the drawer you created for them in your Grandmother’s antique armoire.

Essentially when you break up, that person is exiting your life but they’re still out there living there own.

Breathing

Eating

Flirting

Fucking

Hanging at the same bars.

Talking to the same mutual friends.

Moving on with their lives.

Honestly, I can see how it might be easier to have them six feet under, restful, their mouths and legs shut to the rest of the single world.

Visits to their grave sight are far easier than awkwardly bumping into them at some random farmer’s market, on a Saturday morning, picking out organic ingredients with their new, thinner girlfriend who can cook, speak three languages, and play the accordion.

(Great, she’s skinny and speaks Portuguese. I’m so happy for you!)

(Go fuck yourself)

Having recently experienced a break-up of sorts – five dates, zero coitus (I know, I usually give it up by at least the third date) I got to thinking, that the five stages of grief could easily apply to break-ups as well.

They go something like this:

1. Denial:  You’re just frightened by my honesty. It’s obvious you’ve never been with someone this authentic and it’s making you realize things about yourself that you simply didn’t see until I came along. You’re scared to be in love and that’s okay, we can work through this. You just need time. Let’s take this journey together.

2. Anger: Oh no you didn’t! Your short, tubby, awkward ass did not just tell me you “think we should just be friends.” What in God’s name entitles you to think you’re the one who gets to exit this equation first?! I did not just spend five dates discussing the global economy and the genius of Monty Python so you could break up with me over a shit Shiraz and your pity-filled bug eyes.

3. Bargaining: It’s my smoking isn’t it? Babe, I can quit this shit. Take it or leave it. Seriously, you’re overreacting. I’ve got this thing nipped in the bud. I’ve got 75 patches in this box and they are all dedicated to you. And seriously, if you’re worried about the drinking, I’ll dump this 1979 Macallan Scotch Whiskey down the fucking drain here on the spot boo. Liquid pleasure is nothing compared to the pleasure you give me every time I look into your eyes.

4. Depression: Oh Jesus, I really am going to die alone, a recluse, surrounded by stray cats, urine stains on the carpeting, eulogized by a single three-sentence blurb on page A13 of the metro section.

“DC Damsel was found in a 3-day-old pool of her own Stoli strewn vomit. She is survived by her loyal postman Dmitri, who she never failed to leave genuine two-dollar bills for as a tip at Xmas time. The ASPCA issued the following statement regarding her death, ‘We hope the greater DC community can learn from the unfortunate example of the DC Damsel, and remember how vital it is to spay and neuter your pets.’”

5. Acceptance: I’m a good person. He’s a good person. We just weren’t meant to be. I need a change, a break. Maybe I’ll go away for a long weekend. Maybe somewhere by the seaside. The ocean is so rejuvenating, cleansing really. The tide washing in at dusk. The water is teaming with so much life. The crashing waves against my alabaster legs. Ah, Fleet Week, how I missed you so …