If the world was a perfect place, this is how things would work: All of your former lovers would become morbidly obese after they broke up with you. They would live long, miserable lives, ruing the day they ever left you, and murmuring your name as they took their last, painful breaths.
But the world is not a perfect place. And do you know how I know that? The internet, that's how.
Because of the internet, I can no longer kid myself that my ex-girlfriends have become penniless wretches in my absence. Because of the internet, I now know that my ex-lovers are not only doing well, they are thriving. Damn them!
Up until last week, I had managed to avoid searching the web for information on my ex-girlfriends. Sure, I was tempted, but I felt that by doing so I would be intruding on their sad, pathetic lives. So, in the absence of tangible evidence, I was free to imagine what had become of them since the day they left me licking my wounds and weeping uncontrollably. Each time I'd envision their post-me life a smile would cross my lips. The trailer parks! The badly behaved pets! The poorly tailored clothing! The plumbing problems! The empty longing and deep regrets!
'Poor creature,' I'd say to myself as I'd visualize the grim circumstances of my first girlfriend. In my mind, she had grown huge from compulsive eating, and was trapped in her prison of a bed, bathing herself with a sponge on a stick. Or I'd wistfully picture my most recent girlfriend slaving in some Dickensian sweatshop for a few pennies a day while the woman she had left me for sat at home, drinking tequila from a jelly jar and defiling the marital bed with some tramp that she picked up in the meat-packing district.
In my fantasies I could afford to be magnanimous because my life had turned out so much better than my ex-girlfriends' collective hells. After all, I have raised to the rank of middle-manager at an obscure publishing house! I get tens of dollars a week for writing this column! And, best of all, Diane Sawyer is my girlfriend and she's really good in bed! ( Hey, it's my fantasy, OK? )
Then last week, curiosity finally got the better of me and I typed the name of an ex-girlfriend into Google. It was a terrible mistake. Within seconds my dreams of her self-destruction were dashed. Every link I clicked showed a photo of her smiling as she wrapped her arms around her movie-star beautiful girlfriend. All evidence suggested that she had enjoyed nothing but spectacular good fortune since she broke my heart.
I quickly returned to Google and frantically searched for information on my other exes, hoping to comfort myself with their unhappiness. But, instead, I clutched my chest in horror as I read page after page of good news and happy endings. This one had been promoted to vice president! That one had returned to school and received a PhD! They all had scored excellent girlfriends with great jobs who, unlike me, did not spill food on themselves or mispronounce the word 'viscount.'
After hours of disheartening research, it became abundantly clear that the secret to success in this world is to stop sleeping with me. However, the trick is that you have to start sleeping with me before you can stop sleeping with me. A trial, yes, but after you have finished with the dirty work, happiness and riches await you.
