“I can’t take this!” I’ll scream with my hands yanking at whatever is left of my greasy, unwashed hair. “This isn’t what I want! This isn’t me!” I’ll wail as I crumble into a messy weeping cyber-heap in front of my laptop.
"This brain imaging study of individuals who were still ‘in love’ with their rejecter supplies further evidence that the passion of ‘romantic love’ is a goal-oriented motivation state rather than a specific emotion" the researchers concluded, noting that brain imaging showed some similarities between romantic rejection and cocaine craving. "The findings are consistent with the hypothesis that romantic love is a specific form of addiction."
Under the guise of being sugar and spice and everything nice because that’s what girls have been told they’re made of, they think they have to “let him down easily.” They have to make something up so that they won’t hurt his feelings. A flimsy, semi-true excuse becomes a reason.
He’s not your type, even though you have adamantly claimed to not have a type that he could not be, not because you’re an EOD (equal opportunity dater), but because you don’t believe in “types.” So you don’t have a type, but you know the attributes that are attractive to you – tall, dark, and hotsome – and he is, beyond a five o’clock shadow of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed doubt, the exact opposite of all of them.
She speeds along the freeway replaying the entire evening in her head, each time adding a supporting detail that she had left out in the previous rev. With each exit ramp she passes, indignation grows until she makes a quick stop at the market to prepare for a short anger management session with Ben and Jerry when she gets home. The emotional journey travels over a long commute from pride to anger to realization to hurt.