There were so many guys—where do I start? Do I go around exacting physical revenge on them all like a true bad-ass and probably end up in the hospital myself with major breakages, lacerations, and contusions, or do I tell them how much they’ve all hurt and saddened me, like a little wussy-baby? Either way it’s a daunting prospect. I have no model for this, as far as how I ought to behave. But then I realize I actually do. I’m my mother, and my wife is my father if he had access to a Twitter page. And I am stunned by the unfortunate synchronicity of my life. Am I done with women now, the way my mother was finished with men after all my father’s crap? I don’t think so. I’m too young. And Woody is too needy. All I want to do right now is go home and curl up in the fetal position in a corner with Murray. But I have to face Ned the Head. I take the long, scenic route to work. I tell myself I’m doing this to figure out how best to address this frightful situation, but honestly I think I’m trying to avoid it altogether.
