When faced with The Demolition of Something You Rather Quite Fancied, and in which you had, in fact, placed quite a fuckload of hope, this is NOT how you should respond:
1. Spend four hours in bed with one slice of cake, one small tissue, and no teddy bear.
Either get out of bed and live life, or do the bedridden thing properly dammit. If there isn’t a kg of chocolate involved, you are NOT doing it properly.
2. Write a blog about how now you are really (and you really mean it this time) really really going to give up on Rather Nice Things now. For all eternity.
Because deep down you know you are only bullshitting yourself, and you will do this to yourself again, just like you did it last year, and the year before that, and so on and such and such.
3. Be devastated at the seemingly level-headness and even relaxed happiness that the fancié (the one who was fancied) seems to display.
This is an absolute no-no. You must always deal with pain with a cheery face, and a ton or two of silly little jokes to crack and go ha-ha to. Even better if you add emoticons, flowers, and other Hallmark-like paraphenalia. Expect replies to messages is for sissies, and honesty is for emo kids.
Note: none of this applies if what has been finished, is in fact your favourite chocolate pudding. If it is a bowl of sweet, delicious, fat-full yumminess that has gone to join the Choir Invisible, then by all means, you are fully forgiven and encouraged to tear your face off and scream like a banshee and moon grannies in the street and fart.
FOR FUCK’S SAKE.