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"  &amp;quot;Okay, that&amp;#039;s it.&amp;quot; Sarah announced yesterday upon coming home and finding me in my pajamas with a can of chocolate frosting.  &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;s what?&amp;quot; I innocently asked, pausing the Lifetime movie on the DVR.  &amp;quot;Did you even go to work today?&amp;quot; she asked.  &amp;quot;What&amp;#039;s the point? I&amp;#039;m losing my job.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;The point,&amp;quot; she said, snatching the frosting out of my hands, &amp;quot;is that if you want to get a job with the new organization, which you still might, than you might want to start showing up and actually doing some good work to show them.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t want the job,&amp;quot; I said stubbornly.  &amp;quot;You&amp;#039;re hardly in a frame of mind to be making decisions. Now go clean yourself up -- we&amp;#039;re going out.&amp;quot; She picked up her cell phone and started pushing buttons.  &amp;quot;Who are you texting?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Reinforcements. Now go!&amp;quot;  I put on a pair of jeans, flip-flops and a white tank top, threw my hair in a ponytail, and walked into the living room.  &amp;quot;I think we can do a little better than that, Frumpy McDullerstein.&amp;quot;  She rummaged through my closet, picked out a sundress and sparkly flats, and ordered me to put them on.  &amp;quot;Brush your hair and put some makeup on, too,&amp;quot; she demanded. I blindly obeyed and emerged 20 minutes later looking significantly better, but feeling just as crappy as I did before.  Our destination was the bar/restaurant she used to work at. Jane and Jenna were already seated at the bar, talking to Marco.  &amp;quot;Such a sad face!&amp;quot; he exclaimed when he saw me. &amp;quot;We must get some alcohol into it!&amp;quot;  I ordered a glass of wine, sat down, crossed my arms and put my head down on top of them.  &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m going to die alone,&amp;quot; I moaned. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m going to live in a little house in the woods with 30 cats, and I&amp;#039;m going to die, and they won&amp;#039;t find me for weeks and the cats will have eaten most of my remains out of starvation.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s quite the sunny outlook you&amp;#039;ve got there,&amp;quot; Jenna pointed out. &amp;quot;How about the one that says you got involved with the wrong guy, and now you know, and you can move on to the right one?&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Easier said than done,&amp;quot; I said, finally looking up.  The ladies (and Marco) spent the next hour telling me that I&amp;#039;m fabulous, and I can do better, and all of the other things everyone says when you get dumped that don&amp;#039;t change the fact that you were dumped; that someone decided that the sum parts of you just weren&amp;#039;t good enough for them. How do you not believe that the next guy isn&amp;#039;t going to feel the same way, and the guy after that, and how long before you just start believing that you aren&amp;#039;t good enough, and that you don&amp;#039;t deserve to be happy?  I went home drunk and miserable, but vowing to make it to work the next morning (which I did), and glad to have friends that would drop everything to listen to me whine and tell me how awesome I am until the wee hours of a Friday morning. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/a7741/bedroom-blog-061308/>