The Predicament of the Week from September 21, 1998…

Readers will recall that Brad’s original predicament vaulted into Of the Week status the moment he recounted that the girl who wanted to hang out, hold hands, snuggle — and just be friends — went so far as to bake him a cake.(Thus serving up, for Brad, immense confusion, and for Breakup Girl, a veritable dessert tray of metaphors.). A week later, the frosting thickened, and our man B. got in trouble for being nice-guy-shoulder/pastry-chef — not, say, Boyfriend — for the women he desired. His unrequited cooky-baking had begun to take a toll-house on his will to love. THEN, Brad came back for BG-record-setting thirds, prompting a rather sugar-free response.

But now, at long last, Brad tests — and shares — a new recipe for romance!

Dear Breakup Girl,

Hello. Again. It’s me, and first off I would like to thank you very, very much for listening to me ramble and rant and cry and weep and moan and groan and bitch and scream “Oh my God, why me, why ME?” three times now. I promise you, if this was going to be another one of those letters, I wouldn’t be writing it. Instead, I would probably be off in the corner weeping softly to myself with my head tucked between my knees listening to Jewel or Amanda Marshall.

First off — Lynore.

I walked out to my car early one morning to go pay my tuition fees and as I got into the car, I noticed a note on my windshield. It was from Lynore, and it said the following:

“Brad — I miss you! I know (so do you) that I’ll NEVER call, but I really want to see you. I work at Rising High after 5 PM most weekdays and my phone number is xxx-xxxx. Don’t be a stranger! Love, Lynore.”

What would a sane person do? Well, I don’t know, but I fought with myself for a week and finally said ,”Let’s go see her.” Long story short, she hasn’t changed one bit. Five minutes into our conversation she made it clear that she wanted my pity (her boyfriend? That moved to Florida? Whose family she’s living with? He destroyed her self-esteem.) and she asked if I thought she looked okay. She said that she still loved the guy, whatever, blah blah blah, and that she just wanted to see me because I was such an understanding person, and that she needed someone to cry to. Okay, so am I wrong in translating this as “I want to use you as a doormat?” No thanks, Lynore. In fact, I’d just had another girl call me up after not speaking to me for two weeks. Why? Boyfriend problems. I finally just told her (let’s call her Janet) “Janet, look. If you really want to be my friend, call me on occassions other than those during which you’re sad or depressed, okay? Thanks.” She got really angry and hung up on me. No word from her since.

So I did the same basic thing with Lynore. I told her that I’d love to be her friend again, but that I didn’t want to be her doormat or pity friend or shoulder guy or “hard-times boy.” I made it very clear that my friendship would be at her disposal, but only if she would: (A) Call me, and (B) talk to me even during times of happiness. She didn’t know what to say, literally. She was speechless. It was the first time she had ever seen me stand up to anyone in such a manner instead of lying down and saying “Hey, please, walk all over me.” She finally said she’d call, and I left.

She never called. Surprise.

As for Rachel, we rescheduled the movie, and she showed up, albeit fifteen minutes late. After that, though, she started dating Dan, and she fell into the blissful world of alcohol and lots of sex, which I find fairly disconcerting seeing as she used to angrily speak out against people who drank under the age of 21 and engaged in premarital sex. Again, she stopped calling me for a little while. When she did, it was with boyfriend problems. I had a lot of fun with this one, telling her “look, I don’t have the time to talk. I’m packing to go visit someone in Virginia.”

Silence.

“Um….Virginia?” Yes, I assured her. A girl, in Virginia. A nice gir that I’d talked to over the Internet for two years. And I was going to have a good time. And if she wanted to call me when I got back, she could, but only if it didn’t involve her weeping about her boyfriend to me for more than maybe half an hour, and ESPECIALLY if she promised not to share any sexual details with me.

I went to Virginia. I had the time of my life. I came back. Rachel has yet to call me, a month later.

I sleep easy at night.

Now I have my self-esteem back, and I’ve actually been finding myself flirting with ACTUAL FEMALES since I’ve lifted all of that negative baggage from my shoulders. My life is now relatively poison-free, and I’m enjoying it. Oh, sure, I’m alone, and I just turned 20. All of my friends around me are dating and having sex and ruining their lives by having babies, and I’m sitting here, comfortably alone with my freedom to flirt with anyone I want to and my freedom to do what I want to, when I want to, as long as it’s legal.

In short, I’m no longer a doormat, and I’ve never felt better.

And I baked a cake for my birthday and shared it with friends. Other than that, no baking for anyone else. Period.

Again, thank you for listening to me. Thank you for being….well, for being Breakup Girl.

Love,
Brad

Oh, Brad,

Bravissimo!!! You are an inspiration to us all. I’m completely serious.

But are you completely serious about the total cooky moratorium?

Love,
Breakup Girl