Science, you filthy whore.

Back in my younger days, when my heart was tender and naive, it took a lot more for me to get over a boy. I was working at a store slinging upscale silk resort wear to yuppies when my new age hippie friend Brigitte told me about Oxytocin. I'm not about to pretend like I'm a scientist, but here's what I know about it: Oxytocin, or The Love Chemical, is a neurotransmitter in the brain that is triggered when you interact with a person you are attracted to. Catching sight of them, hearing their voice, taking in a deep breath of their pheromones...these are all things that pull the trigger on that nasty little neurotransmitter and essentially render you powerless to your desires. So when the time came for me to realize that my current love interest, Tattoo Tim, was still hung up on his ex (who happened to share her name with me...that bitch), I consulted Brigitte about how to deactivate the reproduction of this terrible chemical in my brain so I could move on with it. "Six to eight weeks. You need to cut off all contact for six to eight weeks," she said. Great. What was I supposed to do? He worked right next door! What, was I supposed to slip out into the parking lot in a trench coat and sunglasses every day after work? Before I even thought of my plan, Tattoo Tim came to visit me at work. Panicked, I pulled him aside and told him, without any explanation, that I couldn't see or hear from him for six to eight weeks. I actually said that to him. And, bless his little tattooed heart, he just nodded his head and walked away. Luckily it didn't end up taking six to eight weeks to get over him because my next love interest, who had been in my periphery, made a dive bomb into my sights the second he heard I was giving up on Tattoo Tim. Unlucky for me, I didn't actually get to see if that research was true. Did it really take six to eight weeks?

Now that I'm older, and my heart has hardened and encased itself in a briar of thicket, I've put a two week cap on getting over men. I'm 30, man. I don't have time to be carrying a torch for someone that doesn't carry one for me in return. But technology has made things tricky these days. Nobody talks on the phone. We text. Or email. God forbid someone actually says something to your face! But because of this, the interpersonal connections have become strange. We aren't hearing their voices anymore, or smelling their smells. Without those animalistic triggers, it should be a piece of cake to get over the worthless ones. I guess the ones that are actually worth spending more than two weeks of consideration on are the ones that actually do call, the ones that aren't afraid of a face-to-face, the ones that give your brain the opportunity to become addicted. Right now the only person that triggers my obnoxious love neurotransmitter is the stupid fucking Comedian. Luckily, since I can't even get that guy to return a text, this whole thing should be safely out of my system before the New Year. It's easy to say now that he's a jerk and that I shouldn't even waste another minute on him, but I'm tellin' ya, man...if he called me up on New Year's Eve and I heard his voice, I'd probably heat those words up and eat them in a white wine reduction with a side of haricot verts. I can't help it! It's science! Sigh.