I’ve been married a loooong time, but I still remember clearly what it’s like to be dumped. In fact, much of my neuroses can be traced back to a teenage ‘it’s not you, it’s your small penis’ kind of let down.
Daily, I live with the fear of rejection.
/at the fast food drive-thru:
Clerk: Would you like honey mustard or barbecue sauce?
Me: Honey mustard.
Clerk: Oh, I don’t know how to tell you this, but, uh…
Me: What? You don’t have honey mustard, do you?
Clerk: Look, it’s not you, it’s just we’ve run out.
/on the telephone:
Me: What the hell. Sign me up, and we’ll come down to Astoria for our free golf clubs.
Telemarketer: Great! Can I get your name?
Me: Sure. Brandon Rogers. Let me get my credit card and social sec…
Telemarketer: You know, on second thought…
Me: What? You’re not gonna let me tour the properties? It’s me, isn’t it?
Telemarketer: NOOO. No. It’s not you. It’s me. I, uh, just sold the last of the timeshares. sorrytobotheryougottagobye.
/at the dentist
Dentist: I don’t know how to tell you this, but I can no longer be your dentist.
Me: Wha? Si’ts’me, innit?
Dentist: NOOO! No. Well, yes. I’m afraid your penis is too small. I’d like to see other patients now. Uh, this is awkward, but, uh, can I have my toothbrush back?
Fortunately, I have a liberal arts degree, so I spent most of my college years drafting acceptable reasons for Alex to dump me. (And, well, with my track record and list of faults, it’s not outside the realm of possibilities):
“The doctor tells me you are a threat to my internal organs and I must leave for the sake of personal health. You animal, you.”
“I’m actually your wife’s twin sister and dating Jude Law. I begged her to switch but now she wants to come back. I’ll be looking you up as a donor.”
“My boss at the CIA told me it was evident I was falling too hard for a civilian, and I must leave you for the sake of national security. I guess you can say ‘Terrorists=1, My heart=0.’”
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