Romantic relationships arise in an endless manner of ways. Some start with a formal expression of interest, perhaps through a meticulously planned speech or a vaguely obsessive love note; others blossom through the polite, considerate gyrations you can only get from a jacked up dude with his top four buttons undone on the dance floor at the Ivy. Heck, considering the sheer number of ways love can emerge, it’s fair to assume at least one relationship has started with a “T minus 10, 9, 8…” introduction, before two people were launched into the stratosphere in the name of science. Godspeed.
Most of these relationships, however, will not work out. Heartbreak is almost one of life’s certainties, alongside death, taxes and a highly rational bloodlust that takes over whenever Pitbull comes on the radio.
Men tend to take heartbreak with little poise: punching walls, sobbing on the shoulders of their mates, and getting re-invested in Skyrim. Women, on the other hand, deal with the crisis in more constructive ways, like “focus[ing] on [their] career[s].”
And why? Justin Timberlake.
Most of today’s women fell in love with the global sensation at a young age. They were charmed by his unruly boy band antics, and when he grew up and became a solo artist, they discovered their cardinal desires upon hearing his mature, masculine vocals in ‘Cry Me A River’. Heck, they even stood by him when he – get this – willingly invested millions into MySpace. If that’s not unconditional love, then what is?
But more importantly, these women also eventually realised, “I was created in God’s image, but a blurry one at best. Justin was carved from a really high res image – probably a 6000 x 4000 TIFF – and on a retina display, too. I can’t compete with that.”
So really, if they can pick up the pieces of their shattered hearts after realising JT can do way, way better, getting over the heartbreak of losing any other shmuck should be piss easy.
Now, you might be wondering, “what about women who aren’t straight?”. There’s an explanation for that as well, and it’s… uhh… Portia Di Rossi? Yeah, let’s go with that.
While heartbreak is never easy to comprehend, women are likely to have begun developing the coping mechanisms necessary to moving on from a young age. Young boys, on the other hand, don’t have time to fantasise about their lives with JT. Have you played Skyrim? That’s a 200-hour investment right there. So when they, later in life, find themselves heartbroken, shit gets real, and considering there are more than three billion men on the planet, that’s a lot of holes in walls, tears shed and hours spent traversing the dangerous wilderness of Skyrim while failing to accept the loss of a partner.
No doubt, the scientific community is yelling, “That’s all well and good, but what do we do now? How do we apply this knowledge to make our children’s lives better?”.
The answer is simple: Governments need to invest more money into getting posters of actors and actresses, athletes and recording artists into the bedrooms of young boys. Additionally, in-depth instructions on how to make out with these posters needs to be included in every school’s sex-ed curriculum, while also highlighting the risk of sexually transmitted paper cuts to the lips and tongue. With these measures in place, tomorrow’s boys should have no difficulty forming innocent obsessions with celebrities, and then becoming woefully disappointed at the rest of the people the world has to offer.
By placing enough pressure on policy makers, we can ensure that generations to come are entirely desensitised to the harrowing feeling of heartbreak. If we’re really successful, our kids may even begin to see relationships and sex as a purely utilitarian function, deriving no pleasure from what amounts to nothing more than a biological necessity.
So men of the world, do yourself and your kids a favour by walking into your bedroom, garage or shed, ripping that poster off the wall and just going to town. Who cares if it’s a poster of a Holden HSV? It’s not the 1950s anymore – anything goes!
First published on Bullshit.