I want a soul mate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on.
Sometimes, when I need answers, I like to take my questions to Google.
I have googled “How long does heartbreak last?” The result more popular than that was “How long does heartburn last?” This implies people suffer from heartburn more than they do heartbreak, which is a good thing, because heartbreak sucks way more than acid reflux ever could. Weirdly, though, a broken heart does physically hurt. It feels heavy, like someone is sitting on your chest.
There are upsides to despair. You can wear a blanket instead of a coat and your friends won’t judge you. You can smoke indoors because nobody will have the heart to tell an inconsolable girl that a smoking ban has been in place for eight years. And you find out that people are very nice and that they care about you, even if the person you care about most doesn’t.
The problem with heartbreak is that nobody can help you. Not the films you watch alone, searching for a character who feels the way you do, not the glasses or bottles of whisky you keep by your bed, and certainly not Instagram. Every time you post a picture of yourself on Instagram looking fake happy, a fairy dies.
Also, scrolling through photos of girls your ex may or may not be shagging won’t help you. Remind yourself that the right filter can be fantastically flattering, and she probably doesn’t look that good in real life.