There is no easy way to put a bullet through someone’s heart. I don’t care what anybody says about the proper method: in person, over the phone, through email, via smoke signals; the end result is always the same. We seem to think that by cleverly executing a number of actions in a precise order, we can end up with a “That’s OK; I completely understand. You are most certainly not an asshole,” kind of response. It’s not going to happen. Breaking up is an unfortunate and necessary torture that we endure as creatures of desire.

In my latest execution, I opted for the phone—yes, the phone. Before being sentenced to death by the American Dating Association, I shall present my defense. I don’t handle public outburst very well. If I were confronted with a situation in which I was attempting to maintain a composed façade while the poor girl openly weeps over a half eaten sandwich at Denny’s, I’d be most likely to crack under pressure, toss my wallet onto the table, and get the hell out of Dodge. Would it be that much better if I put it off until we’re in the car after dinner? Sure, it’s no matter that I just spent the last forty-five minutes smiling and lying through our last supper. I would have some leverage, though; I did pay the entire bill, plus tip!

Maybe I’m just desensitized to the various methods of breaking up. My famed two and a half year run was ended via a letter. A letter—typed! It wasn’t as bad as it sounds; she did hand it to me. In retrospect, it was actually a rather thoughtful gesture. It afforded me the ability and freedom to fall apart on my own time, in my own way, in the privacy of my own—well, our own—home. Falling apart involved me calmly and collectively leaving the room, calling my sister, and telling her, without tears, that we broke up. I never was much of a crier.

I guess that’s why I opted for the phone this time around. You have the freedom to go to pieces in your own way, without having to worry about an entire restaurant gawking, without having to drive home nearly blinded by the tears; you’re in a place where you always feel comfortable. Sure, it’s a copout and one is considered a coward for using the phone, but look at what you’re dealing with. You’re not going to get a positive response no matter which way you cut it. You may as well give the other person the courtesy to bury their face in a pillow and cry their eyes out. There’s also a good chance that there’s some ice cream in the freezer, too.

Breaking up with somebody is your last chance to prove that you really are just a cold, selfish prick. It’s very liberating to be able to openly acknowledge all those little things that you couldn’t stand and kept quiet for so long. The airing of grievances is so uplifting that you almost have a newfound respect for this person. You realize that maybe, just maybe, they’re not so bad after all. This notion is quickly dismissed the moment you speak with your ex for the first time post-breakup, and you are instantly reminded why you pulled the trigger in the first place.

Every relationship and termination thereof leaves a lasting impression whether we like it or not. There’s always a song or a movie or a simple phrase that takes us back to happier times: the brief engagements that felt right at the time, and the long lasting relationships that we never thought would end. The ones that mean everything until one day they are suddenly gone. They leave behind mental complexes, shattered trust and shattered hearts, and depressing, forlorn journal entries. These are the relationships that we spend our whole lives trying to get back. We search all corners of the earth and do our damnedest to find them, one breakup at a time.