Written by Niamat Singh & Illustrated by Harshita Sharma
Don’t spend lonely moments watching Alicia keys and John Mayer serenading Times Square with romantic renditions of gravity x if I ain’t got you. Youtube’s algorithm already knows you’re at your desk, broken hearted. Expect to be served some Chris Martin attempting to Fix You with Ed Sheeren.
No number of popcornflavoured shots are worth sending that text. You will awaken, feeling like the Sahara has emptied itself in your throat and curse yourself for not giving your phone to your friend for the night. Pop the preferred cocktail of eno&campose to alleviate your inevitable “hanxiety”.
As a consequence of the aforementioned popcorn shots, you will not be able to train like you had promised yourself you would. The gym is not going to accept your last-minute cancellation and that ‘no show’ is going to hit harder than your boxing coach screaming “HANDS UP” into your already swollen face.
Revenge bodies are the game. But the chocolate cake fudge from Big Chill masquerades as the game. Stop yourself at one slice.
Guess what? Your ex is not going to walk out of your phone and into your arms. Delete, delete, delete old photos. Closure is yours for the taking. Be brave enough to accept the role you’ve played in your own suffering and let go – trust the Universe and Metallica alike when they say that nothing else matters.
This is more of a PSA to Instagram – an open letter of sorts from the broken hearted. Dear Instagram, please either change your algorithm to list another person’s “following” list in chronological order so that we don’t spend hours scrolling up and down trying to figure out who our ex has recently “followed” OR, better still, remove this section altogether to avoid late night anxiety attacks.
Don’t shave for the next six weeks. It’ll serve as a reminder to keep that chastity belt safely locked and sit like a lady (even if you aren’t) for the foreseeable future.
I’m just going to say what you aren’t supposed to say. Being around happy couples when you’re in the throes of heartbreak sucks. Axe them all for a bit, dust off the bicycle you bought in lockdown 1 and join the singletons you thought you were too cool for when your heart was whole. Those morning rides will revive you.
Picture this- you’re at party and there’s a live performer singing a pretty good rendition of Drake’s “Hold On, We’re Going home.” You look across the room and your eyes meet those of Mysterious Stranger who you, (because you did not stick to rule 7), make good on Drake’s ballad with. Then, two weeks of living in an oxytocin infused lust cloud bursts when you wake up to a text from your ex. This is when you remember the first rule of squash: the rebound hits harder than the shot. Please refer to point 7 once again.
And finally, be regular about sticking your feet into a little hot tub while a therapist cures your soles with a much needed pedicure. Let the debris from the de-construction site fall away.