Sex

RECENTLY I was contacted by an author requesting an interview for her upcoming book, The Break-Up Etiquette Bible. Knowing nothing about etiquette or bibles, my original plan was to agree and then spew a bunch of hideous lies, exposing the literary sham that is the self-help genre. But even I'm not that evil. And the author turned out to be cute.

Her mission, I was told, is to try to help people (both dumper and dumpee) prepare to handle break-ups with more grace. Lofty goal, if you ask me. Take a person at his or her most vulnerable, angry, sad, irrational, jealous, and insecure, and ask him or her to act like a tulip.

Perhaps it's the writer in me, but half the fun of a relationship is its demise. Shiv or hacksaw? Hacksaw, then shiv? My eyes actually lit up during the interview when the author asked about my most nightmarish break-ups. There were attempted suicides, naked pursuits down public streets, belongings tossed down stairwells, love notes set aflame. With each glass of sangria that I downed, I could see the movie version being directed.

"Do you have any regrets from your own experiences of being broken up with and how you'd handle it differently now?" the author asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I should have killed the bitch."

Had I been asked to recall the most loving or tender moments of past relationships, I probably would've had to wrack my brain a bit more. The pain of a break-up is so much easier to recall, so scarred and tangible, so seared into our psyches. It eclipses happiness if you let it. In some masochistic way, it's even more fun.

In my opinion, if The Break-Up Etiquette Bible succeeds, it will not be for its therapeutic value or groundbreaking advice, but for its seductive melodrama. Admit it: we all love to hear a good break-up story, and we all love to tell them. Juicy break-up tales have pretty much sustained the business of brunch.

But despite my ravings on the titillating drama of past relationships, I actually learned a lot about myself during that two-hour interview. According to the researcher, I'm "just like a guy," except completely honest and self-aware about my douche-bag ways. Still, the entire transcript of my interview might be filed in a chapter called "Listen to this Demented Bitch."

My one big break-up tip is this: lie like it's your job. No one really wants to hear the truth when you're breaking up with them. So spare the homely, stupid details of their pathetic lives. And if you're the dumpee, are you really going to change your behavior based on the feedback of some noncommittal coward who you now want to stab in the eye?

Probably not. You will most likely change your behavior when you realize how unattractive you've become in your blubbering state of self-loathing. Exhausted friends will no longer want to hear your whining. Co-workers will suddenly be lunching at their desks instead of going out with you. Pets will withdraw in your presence. And then you'll be left to hunker down with little ol' you and figure out how to pick up Miss Polly Pissy Pants and get back out there.

My second tip is this: blame yourself. This isn't rocket science. And it's basically a variant of tip one. The excuse "It's not you, it's me" exists for a reason. If every girl had to hear, "It's you, and this is why," our suicide and breast-implant rates would go through the roof. Personally, I prefer the I'm-not-looking-for-a-relationship line, or the too-absorbed-in-my-career bit. In extreme circumstances, you could always feign a fatal illness and claim to be spending your remaining days in Tibet. That way, you get both an escape and sympathy.

And, God Almighty, please don't cry! I would rather a swift blow to the abdomen than have to watch those iridescent orbs drift down your cheeks like a bleeding glacier. Tears are also more likely to sustain the relationship, thanks to guilt or sympathy. Violence leaves me no other option than to dump your ass, you crazy bitch.

Strangely enough, right when the author's tape recorder clicked off, I got to put all my lessons to use, as my flame awaited me at the bar so we could "talk." By "talk," she meant off-load on me so she could feel better about herself by making me feel like ***. If I'd had the break-up bible in hand, I could simply have referred her to the chapter on self-blame.

The tirade progressed into a full-blown character assault: my competitive ways, my habit of repeating the same stories a thousand times, my annoying Leo qualities of having a personality and being able to command attention.

I allowed my eyes to well for exactly 10 seconds before exhaling and remembering my "do not cry" mantra. I could have lashed out. I could have rattled off a list of her qualities that I despise. All those dramatic movie scenes that play out in my mind could have screened for all to see. But for what? So that we both leave bruised and insecure?

I can take one for the team. Lie. Blame self. Don't cry. There, there, little one. You're totally right. I'm such a self-absorbed asshole. Don't you feel better with that off your chest?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get back to this group of guys that's never heard the one about my pug eating my thong underwear. Thank you so much for the drink. And - here's a must-have for anyone's break-up lexicon - take care. @

Jeannie Greeley is a dignified freelance writer. She has never had anyone break up with her via
e-mail at jeannieg@comcast.net. To share your break-up tales, visit: www.breakupetiquettebible.com.