Rule #8: The Best Way To Get Over a Guy Is To Get Under Another One

I’m sure most people will tell you that “time” is the only thing that helps heal a broken heart, but fuck that.

You can Carrie Underwood his car, you can gain five pounds (all from wine) sitting around watching the entire box set of Sex and the City, you can steal his cat, you can pop Xannies like they were candy, you can eat nothing but Pinkberry for a whole month, but nothing helps you get over a guy as much as getting underneath another one does.

After one particular soul-crushing break-up, I tried all of the above — in one night. I ended up spending the wee hours of the morning puking up a pinkish spew of red wine, plain fro-yo and Xanax chunks while trying to keep his pussy from licking up my puke. (Don’t worry, I returned the cat before he even realized it was gone.)

And to make things even worse, everytime this disgusting pink and white sprinkled concotion made its way into the toilet, all I could think about were the dozen strawberry Sprinkles cupcakes he bought me for my birthday (it was the only damn thing he ever gave me), so I’m trapped in this loop of puking, sobbing and kitty-swatting on my bathroom floor.

The next night, I was all set to unhinge, binge, purge and repeat when my good friend Melissa came over and forced me into a pair of skinny jeans. Luckily, I had been on the break-up diet for about a week, so they actually fit without my flesh cupcaking over the side and she dragged my sorry ass to The Village Idiot.

That’s when I met the Irish opera singer. He was hot, sexy and best of all, he had an accent that reminded me of my favorite Colin Farrell movie … what’s it called? The one where he talks all nasty? Oh, yeah, his sex tape.

Despite the fact that I SO was not in the mood for another man’s dick, my friend suggested that we all go back to my place for another drink after the bar closed — and then she drove off the minute me and Lucky Charms got out of the car.

I guess the one good thing about hooking up with Euros is they don’t care if you’re waxed/shaved/vagazzaled/coherent. I had had just the right combination of Xanax and Vodka tonics at this point, so after a little bit of wrestling on my couch, we got down to doing the dirty. I can’t say it was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life (he had this annoying habit of talking dirty in ebonics) but it did the trick.

The next day, I was no longer obsessing about my ex. Since the opera singer hadn’t returned my text in, like, 5 hours, I started obsessing about him instead. I believe in psychology this is called “transferrence.”

Sure, after another few months of stalking dating him, he pretty much pulled down his pants and took a dump right on top of my heart. But this time, instead of reaching for the baseball bat and a handful of pills, I pulled on my skinny jeans and headed out to the VI to find another peen to help me mend my broken heart.