Surefire Ways To Get Over Your Ex Girlfriend

1st Rule of thumb,
no sad music, it’s evil,
and drags desperation along
back of a Pontiac, staining the
pavement with obsession.

Second step:
Bury the low down
bitch alive!
You’ve already given her
everything under the sun,
why not give her the earth as well?

Ok, so you prefer not to
go that route? You’re right,
she may take pleasure
in the fact that
you have went through
so much trouble.

Suicide may be
an available option.
After all, mental anguish
is an ice-cold beer
on a hot summer’s day,
compared to being trapped
inside a pit of fire,
and burning in hell
for all eternity.

Time for plan {B}.
You can try jumping
your pathetic ass
in the shower,
and brushing your teeth wouldn’t hurt.
A shave wouldn’t kill you either,
and for crying out loud, put
on some damn deodorant.

Now, grab some notebook paper,
and write a lovely poem about
how she left you for a married man.
Write how she has gotten your only son
attached to this loser,
and now she’s knocked up.
Put on some clean cloths,
take the bus downtown,

(Since your soft ass let her
have the fucking car)

and go to the open mic session.

Mingle with the ridiculous
new age conspicuously shady beatniks,
snapping their fingers
for every sad sack that steps on stage
to pour out their heart in front of
total strangers; making you feel
heard when it’s only a disguise
to make you feel obligated to buy
their book.

Try walking over to the bar,
careful not to fall and drop
the ton of books and CD’s
you’ve just bought.
Talk to the pretty ladies,
but only the ones dressed in all black--
they’re so fucking artistically weird
that they will deep throat you in an alley,
while pissing out cocktail drinks
with the force of a water hose.

Hurry and catch that last #4
Cottage grove bus back home.
Stand outside your apartment door,
key in hand, and ponder on the
poems you’ve just heard tonight from bitter
women who poke fun of men
with multiple baby mamas, and no car.
Think how they have some nerve,
when they’re no prized virgins themselves;
the only reason they don’t have kids is because
their used, beat up and diseased vagina
renders them incapable of breeding.

Go inside,
form a big phony smile,
and go lay on the couch,
since the bed holds to many
scents and memories.
Bask in the glory of freedom,
and masturbate to
exercise Infomercials,
since you have nothing better to watch,
because the cable was in her name.