For the second week in a row, I found my muse whilst surfing old xkcd's.
How To Break Up With Your Girlfriend
You come home one night at 2 AM, drunk. You were at this dive bar, with your buddy Chris, and couldn’t help but feel jealous because he was getting all the girls and you always pass them up. You’ve been with her for three years and you love her. But why do you love her? Do love her because it’s familiar? Of course no one could ever understand you like she does, but isn’t there something to be said for exploring?
You wake up the next afternoon with a vicious hangover. You crawl out of bed and wonder why your pants aren’t in your room. After stumbling downstairs, your housemate gives you crap for getting shitfaced on a Wednesday. Again. “Dude, you have a girlfriend! What are you doing with that skeezball Chris, at Blur, on a Wednesday?”
He has a point. “Shut up,” you tell him, unwilling to communicate since it sounds like he’s talking into a megaphone. “Where are my pants?” you ask. He laughs and points to the kitchen. You stumble over and find a pair of blue jeans crumpled on the floor in front of the dishwasher. There’s a pot of cold coffee on the counter, so you down it and reach for your pants. You then discover that your cell phone didn’t make it to it’s charger last night, due to the fact that that in your drunken stupor, you left your pants in the kitchen for no apparent reason.
The battery is almost dead, but you have two new texts. The first is from Chris. “Dude, that Stacy girl was mad into you last night!” He has a point. What are you really doing with this relationship? You’re graduating in the fall and you’ve dated the same girl for three years. What are you missing? Who else is out there?
Who cares who else is out there? You have an amazing girl who would go to the ends of the Earth for you. She loves you for you.
You read the second text. It’s from her. “What are you up to today? You should stop by.” She has a point. You’ve been spending far too much time with your frat boy friends and not nearly enough time with her. You shouldn’t be doing Jägerbombs with floozies in a dive bar on a Wednesday night. You should be with her, curled up on the couch, watching some crappy movie she loves, even though you’ve already seen it a thousand times.
You find your shoes and begin your trek to her house. Are you really going to do this? You’re going to break up with your girl because ‘Stacy was mad into you?’
But it’s not just that. You’ve been doing this for months. Living vicariously through Chris and his obnoxious friends. You don’t even like Chris! But he always knows where the party is. So you call him every night and ask “what’s good tonight, bro?” And he always has the answer. And you always tag along.
Why? Why do you subject yourself to this slow, expensive torture, going to shitty bars looking for easy girls, all so you can back down at the last moment? “I have a girlfriend,” you say. Do you mean it? Can you even pretend to mean it given that you spent the last hour buying this girl drinks?
The next thing you know, there she is, standing in her door, looking at you, head tilted slightly to the right. Her hair is jet black, her skin is pale and her eyes seem to change color from brown to green in the sunlight. She smiles at you.
You can’t do this. You love her. Look at her! She’s an angel! No, no, this is wrong. Tell her how you feel. You owe her an explanation. She will understand.
“You worry about what?”
“I worry that I’m with you because it’s comfortable. But I love you. Nobody compares to you. And even though I worry about what I’m missing, I don’t dare let go of you long enough to find out.
“I’m happy with you. I mean it. So I’m going to stop worrying and start spending more time with you. I promise.”
You reach out and hold her hand. She smiles awkwardly before glancing at the floor as she brushes a stray strand of hair away from her face.
“This is probably a bad time to bring this up, but I don’t actually love you anymore.”
She has a point.
Sadly, being a technology pundit is truly never having to say you’re sorry. You can be wrong for years and never lose your job.—The Macalope