Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me - Ben Karlin [75]
Case #17
The preemptive dump, which can only be viewed as an evolutionary defense against the emotional calamity known as rejection, was first brought to my attention by a three-hundred-pound county shot-put champion nicknamed “The Sheik,” though I believe he was of mixed Swiss-Swedish descent. The preemptive dump was just a folk tradition at that point, and had not been subjected to the rigors of science, but I immediately saw its potential for widespread, or at least repetitive, application. We were in the locker room after track practice, and The Sheik stood at the mirror pinching great gobs of zit pus from his neck as he explained the process:
“It’s always the same, dude. You can see it in her eyes. She’s ready to dump your ass. You ask about Saturday night and she says she’s not sure. She might have to help her family get ready for her father’s wake. That’s when you make your move. Tell her it’s over. Tell her to get lost. I mean, fuck that shit, right?”
I have initiated the preemptive dump on a few occasions, including once with a college sweetheart we’ll call Melissa, though her name was actually Malissa. There are a lot of things I could tell you about Melissa, but suffice to say we were young and I was a boy and she was girl and I had a penis and she had that thing that just wants a penis to be in it immediately. I told her as much and she looked at me oddly. So, thinking of The Sheik’s advice, I dumped her ass, whereupon she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but please step away from my carrel.” I winked at her, and silently thanked my tremendous friend.
Case #37
A confession: the numbers I’ve been assigning these cases are random, or not even random, but designed to make people think I’ve had more experience than is perhaps, technically, true. Why would I do that? To serve science, that’s why. There are no ethics when the truth is on the line, and if I have to lie about how much I’ve gotten to get people to take my findings seriously, I will not hesitate. Still, do not be mistaken. I have not fared so poorly for a man in my condition.
This case in point, one to tantalize the pure math crowd, takes the form of a problem first advanced by my mentor Wallinger after a few games of racquetball, a long steam, and a half carafe of aquavit had, as they say, loosened his tongue.
“Tell me, buddy, how can a be lucky enough to be even in the same fucking equation as b, if a can be described as mostly balding with soft furry titties, weird leathery patches on his inner thighs, and horned yellow nails curling from his feet like the claws of some fat, wheezing griffin and b stands for the few women you’ve, sorry, I mean, a has been with, nice girls who aren’t even desperate teenagers from former Soviet satellite states? I mean, how does that happen ever?”
It’s an important question, and it is a shame Wallinger’s long-suffering wife, Gwenda, booby-trapped his Rubik’s Cube before he could examine it more closely. Until now the best minds have only been able to posit the conjecture that I, or, I mean, a must go down on the nice girls for hours and then listen rapturously to endless litanies of their fears and desires, however trifling or superficial.
There is some statistical truth to this, but there are more variables to consider. Some women dig a guy with furry titties. And I am a better-than-average listener. I once listened to a woman describe her relationship with her sister for over an hour. These facts cannot be ignored when advancing a unified theory of dumping, or really, a theory of anything. That shit was boring.
A Case for Further Study
My son was born nearly three years ago. Many are the nights I will return from a grueling day at the lab and he will be there, sitting in my wife’s arms. He