You've just ended a relationship. Maybe it was their fault, maybe it was yours, either way, it's over. And yet, feelings still linger. Naughty feelings. All you want to do is to be left the hell alone to wallow in self-pity and Oreo cookies, but your friends will have none of that and insist instead on taking you out to the bar. Here's a breakdown of what you can expect to experience over the next several hours.

9 p.m.
Location of phone: In your car
What you're drinking: Beer

It's crowded in the bar as your friends drag you in and place a beer in your hand. Things start off fairly well, drinking and laughing and making fun of your former flame. In fact, you can barely remember their name. You know what? Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to come out tonight.

10 p.m.
Location of phone: It's in your car, but honest to God, you think you can hear your ring from here. You may need to go check that out.
What you're drinking: Beer, but there's one in each hand.

Even your friend who's a borderline alcoholic is warning you to slow down at this point. Pay them no heed, as tonight, you're celebrating your freedom! You want all your friends around you at such a joyous time. Even that roommate that never leaves the apartment and kind of creeps you out. You know what, you'd better go get your phone and give them a call.

11 p.m.
Location of phone: One of your friends wrestled it away from you. And that friend is dead to you now.
What you're drinking: Jack and Coke.

Beer just isn't doing it for you any more. Time to kick things up a notch. You're openly flirting with a stranger across the bar now. Unfortunately, something about them reminds you about your ex, and you start to cry a little. The rest of the hour goes like this: drink, weep, drink, weep, drink, weep, drink, weep, drink. Your friends begin to wisely distance themselves from you.

"Wanna watch a movie
or whatever?"
12 a.m.
Location of phone: On the bar in front of you, taunting you, daring you to use it. Man, your phone is smug. You should just make the call already to shut it up.
What you're drinking: Some bizarre hybrid of alcohol and paint remover. You don't remember what it's called, but you do remember you had to sign a waiver before they could legally sell it to you.

How come no one will hook up with you? Everyone doesn't know what they're missing, because you're a catch. At least that's what your mom said when you informed her of your break up. You're attention soon returns to your phone. Thanks to speed dial even someone as drunk as yourself finds it remarkably easy to press one button and your ex on the line. Damn you, Verizon, damn you to hell!

1 a.m.
Location of phone: Pressed firmly against your ear.
What you're drinking: Oh, you've been cut off by now. And not even by the bartender, but by one of your own friends, who has deemed you a menace to yourself and everyone around you.

No one is answering. One call turns to two, which quickly turns to twelve. Suddenly, they pick up. The sound of their voice startles you back to reality. You clearly hadn't thought this plan all the way through. At first the conversation is awkward, partially because of the recent breakup, but mainly because you have to periodically stop talking long enough to throw up. Emotions are rekindled and finally they invite you back to their apartment to "watch a movie", even though they don't own a television and only watch pretentious foreign films that they pretend to enjoy so they can lord it over their friends. God, you hate that about them. But tonight you're willing to overlook their obvious flaws because there's no way you're going back to your empty, dark room alone.

9 a.m.
Location of phone: Flung from the window in a fit of passion.
What you're drinking: Right now, all you're drinking in is shame. Oh, and Gatorade. Lots and lots of shame and Gatorade.

The birds are singing and the sun is shining, and yet, you're dying more than a little bit inside. They very thought of lying next to this person for another minute makes the bile rise in your throat. You want out of here, but there's no escape. If only your telephone had some sort of cloaking or teleportation device, you could easily get yourself out of this situation. But alas, all it does is take pictures and aid in your booze-fueled shenanigans. Again, you look skyward and curse Verizon and everything they stand for. After all, it's really the phone companies fault that you're in this mess to begin with, isn't it?