I don’t usually end relationships on good terms. Check that, by the time I actually break things off, I have already tossed any remnants of whatever sentiments I had over my shoulder like a crumpled, luke-warm can of cheap beer.

As background, I had a relationship with a piece of trailer trash through the last year or so of high school. She was the older women by about four years. I worked with her at a fast food chain. As i look back now, I have no idea what the attraction was. She had a slightly larger than normal ass, no tits, no self-confidence and was technically bat-shit insane. After a number of socially dysfunctional situations that included one parentally-aborted chapter of stink-pie, I stopped returning her calls; cold-turkey. The relationship carried on through the beginning of college, so the cut-off was easy. I let her go for about two months before I spoke to her again:

She: So I guess you’re not talking to me anymore?

Me: Nope. I’m scheduled to work on Friday. Mind dropping my stuff through the drive-thru? Great.

Prior to that, I dated what I would now call a total sweetheart my sophmore year of high school. For visuals, she was a shorter blonde that was bubbly and bouncy, if you know what I mean, named Tiffany. Kinda squeaky, but really cute. But she was too suffocating for my taste back then—called me five times a day. I did run into her while I was standing on a train stop back when I interned downtown in college. She turned out quite alright. Which is good because I broke up with her on her sixteenth birthday—on the actual day mind you—at her gi-normous outdoor family party. To this day, I still feel like a shit head. But it’s one of those things with me. When it’s over…It. Is. Over.

As for grade school, I don’t officially count any of the sticky fumblings that occurred as relationships. They were not that numerous or that titillating for that matter, with the exception of a girl named Laura—she had great tits for an eight-grader. She let me pet the once, kinda as a sympathy thing. Maybe she was bored. Anyway, eight years of grade school highlighted by five seconds under a pink turtle neck sweater. Fantastic.

There was another girl, named Lori, that apparently enjoyed my social skills so much that her and a friend left a monument to me on bitter cold Sunday morning. As my family rolled up the drive way on our way back from church, we noticed a foot-long summer sausage sticking out of a four-foot high snow bank. It was covered with a white, semi frozen substance that resembled a male excretion. Imagine, for a moment, the awkward silence as your parents determine the nature of the configuration, while an adolescent tries not to betray the fact he knows exactly what it is. Priceless. Yeah, guess I could have let her down a bit easier.

So now, I am sitting in my office waiting for an exit interview. I keep getting requests from the creative staff to which I give answers like: No. I cannot teach you Flash in five minutes. You’ll have to figure that one on your own. I’m trying real hard not to pull the trigger on this smoke wagon and lay waste to the galactically inept. But it is hard.