Well, ladies, it's finally happened. My much loved relationship with you-know-who went to hell faster than anything I've ever seen. Spending a few days out of my mind was apparently what I needed to let the creativity flow, as I am back with a vengeance. Sitting in my bed half cocked off of a box of Peter Vella's best, I stopped crying long enough to realize that I can't be the only one with break-up comforts. This got me wondering if girls really do follow a pattern of relationship-breakup-freakout-move on, or if everyone's different. I've decided to walk you through my weekend of horror and whoredom.  I suggest you follow suit and let the world know what YOU do when you have to stay a few days in the Heartbreak Hotel.

 It's a bad day for Korey, with her jellyfish smile.

(Day 1)

Mostly I sat there stunned, but then I got all dramatic on it and dragged a box of wine to my bedroom, loaded up on cigarettes and began to ring the alarm with text messages to every girlfriend I could think of. (Typical, I know.) Words of encouragement meant nothing to me, in all honesty. I was drunk, in the oldest pajamas I could find, smoked out and bawling. Now we all know when our friends are in bad spots we want to offer little pearls of wisdom and love... but personally I'm kinda like "Spare me, bitch. You're single too." But that's just because it was day one and I was obviously a hot ass mess. Needless to say, the day it happened I drank myself to sleep, and may... or may not have dialed a few exes and bar dudes in the process. High five for a desperate need for male attention.

             Nectar of the Gods.

 Contemplating all the choices she made.

(Day 2)

Day two I woke up with a vicious headache and an even scarier attitude. I showered, straightened my hair to Wednesday Addams status and dressed myself in my best mourning garb. Old school Def Leppard concert tee, what I call my "Squash it jeans"*, TONS of black eyeliner (angsty girls always get play at the bar), neon blue eyeshadow with waaayy too much mascara, grabbed my Neurosonic cd and began removing everything I could think of that made me even consider him. After scalding my body clean, and going so far as to shampoo my BED with a carpet shampooer, it hit me like a MAC truck driven by some crazy assed meth head on a serious bender: I'm the problem. In the words of the great Carrie Bradshaw, "How many times are we going to get dumped before we stop blaming men, and realize that we, are in fact, the problem." I was 22 and a neglected housewife.

 And you know that crazy bitch wouldn't back down an inch....

(Day 3)

Come to find out, in my drunken rampage I'd called an old bar buddy, who promptly invited me to a tattoo-shop bonfire. So you know I was all like, "Oh hell yes." Refusing to wedge it, I had to ask if there was going to be solid ground to stand on. Thank God for poured concrete slabs. Slapping on my dopest "eff me" shoes, STUPID CUTE socks, skanky cut-off shorts with the denim danglies, and a black jean vest, I hit the scene harder than I wanted to hit my new ex. (Side note:  found new future ex boyfriend, he may or may not be a rebound, but who cares? He's cute, dumb and covered in tattoos.)

(The socks, not the shoes. Those shoes are gross.)

It's idiot season, let the hunting begin.

(The last day.)

I did gain perspective out of my skank-attack across the county. Perspective is always lovely, even when you realize everything you did wrong. So, on day four I once again lay in bed, this time sober, and watched kids' movies all day in my pjs. I realized that all of my planning of "our life" fell on deaf ears, since, being so young, dude couldn't see past next week, let alone the next three years. I always check out that site postsecret.com, as I love to know everyone's business, and found a quote sent straight from the universe herself to me, with love and truth: "Getting over you is the hardest thing I've ever had to do, and I'm looking forward to the challenge." Oddly inspired, I rolled out of bed, washed my face, grabbed a beer and began to write down what I learned at the Heartbreak Hotel, aka my very own bedroom. I don't particularly care if you ladies didn't want to hear about it, you got to. All I know is: somehow I've managed to remain scar-less through this whole thing, and I hope and pray that when that so called prince DOES come, I won't punish him for the mistakes others made... even if I have to fake it. After all, that's what we're best at. So, if you yourself are staying in the Heartbreak Hotel, remember... guys aren't hard to get... they're just not as smart as us. And never... ever forget, what the last guy did has nothing to do with the next guy. Love on, ladies, love on. Now, you'll have to excuse me--a lovely young chiropractor is blowing my cellular up.

(P.S. It always makes me feel better to hear other people's misery, so feel free to hate on this post, or post your very own Heartbreak Hotel story, what you learned, and what you did. Who knows, maybe we can help the young ones on here... since they have a serious rude awakening coming their way.)

*Squash It Jeans : Jeans that are so tight they look painted on.  If your swagger is right and your shoe game is vicious, skin tight jeans squash every other homely girl at the party. Bring 'em down.