Advice to a Heart-Broken Sixteen-Year-Old

-- Why not be productive right? --

"Advice to a Heart-Broken Sixteen-Year-Old"

Dear Julie,

Greetings from London. I've been here so long, not only have I adopted the accent, I've started critiquing other people's accents.

People who are actually FROM London.

Needless to say, your Uncle Matt is still as socially adept as ever.

I got a horrifying phone call from your mother yesterday. It's unusual for me to hear my big sister cry, but she was crying.

At first, I thought your grandmother had finally agreed to be put into a home--but that wouldn't elicit crying from your mother, that would make her samba around her living room with a feather boa.

No, your mother was crying because her daughter was going through her first break-up.

She said you were up in your room, and she could hear you sobbing into your pillow.

Aren't mothers amazing? They can hear sobbing into a pillow through a closed door and one floor down. I can't even hear my alarm clock Monday morning when I set it on the pillow next to me and set the radio station to "Metal Madness."

So she was crying, and you were crying, and I started crying--of course, some of my crying had to do with the fact that your mother called in the middle of 'Beaches.' A good chunk of it was you though, and your new found heartbreak.

Instantly I sat down to write you this e-mail.

A letter might have been more meaningful, but my handwriting looks like a blind man trying to draw a turkey, so I settled on a more technological approach.

Now, there aren't a lot of things I'm an expert at. I'm admittedly relieved that your mother didn't call to tell me you were pregnant, because I probably would have jumped for joy at the thought of planning a baby shower, and that would have been the extent of my help with THAT.

Heartbreak, however, is something I can give you more than a few pointers on, my queen among nieces.

So here are some tips from your Uncle Matt on getting past this break-up. May they serve you as they have served me. Even the ones that didn't serve me might serve you, and regardless, all of them combined together to put me in a gorgeous flat in London--so why bother trying to separate the good from the bad anyway, right?

First off, talk shit about him. It may not be the mature thing to do, but it will make you feel really REALLY good. Talk about how stupid he is. Talk about what a bad kisser he was. Talk about how there was always a little too much saliva or about how he never opened his mouth enough so it was like trying to kiss a CPR doll. Talk only to your friends--the ones that he's not friends with, the ones who never liked him--that way you won't get yourself in trouble. But really let him have it when you talk to them. Don't hold anything back. A voice inside you will tell you that he was perfect and that it wants him back and that if you say anything nasty about him other than how crazy he's behaving he'll find out and you'll never get back together.

DON'T LISTEN.

That voice should be ignored at all costs, especially when it tells you to turn him into the one that got away while the dust from his shoes is still fresh on the welcome mat.

(Sorry, sometimes your Uncle gets carried away with his language. It's that Creative Writing degree desperately trying to be worth something.)

So yes, piece of advice number one: Talk shit about him. You can learn to forgive him, and be friends with him, and be mature LATER ON. For now, be a childish, whining, immature, trash-talking bitch. Uncle Matt gives you permission, and anybody who tells you otherwise should have shit talked about them as well.

When you run out of friends willing to listen to you--as you will, people have their limits after all--call me. I love talking shit. I never even met the guy, but I'm sure I can find something nasty to say about him.

Your mother says his name was Gray--like the color--that's a good half hour of shit-talking right there.

So call me--anytime.

Piece of advice number two: That voice that we touched upon in piece of advice number one--let me tell you what that voice is.

That voice is the most annoying girl at the party.

You're sixteen, so I'm sure you've been to your share of parties downtown at some loft owned by some older man who fulfills your many psychological needs that at this point are so deeply rooted you barely know they're there.

...Or maybe you just go to sleep-overs, like normal sixteen-year-olds.

To each his own.

No matter what party you go to, there's always that annoying girl who wasn't invited but found out about the party anyway because annoying people have GPS systems implanted in their brains that lead them to all the cool parties so they can try to ruin them.

The voice in your head is that girl. When that voice starts talking to you, treat it as you would treat that girl. Move far away from it as discreetly as possible.

I had a voice like yours when I went through my first break-up. It told me that it would be a good idea to shave my head and send my ex-boyfriend photos of me with small farm animals to remind him that I had a kind heart.

Believe me, if there is a Devil, and it's not Parker Posey, then it's that voice.

Third piece of advice--Kiss someone else. Your mother would kill me for saying this to you, but then again, she'd kill me for writing this letter to begin with. Everyone tells you to avoid rebounds. I say rebounds are like the drugs they give you in rehab so the withdrawal doesn't kill you.

...Not that I know anything about that.

Go somewhere and kiss someone. Yes, it should be someone you find attractive. I mean, don't just kiss ANYONE. But don't think about it too much either. Every romantic and/or physical interaction you have with someone else will help you get over...sigh...GRAY.

Kiss a guitarist. Kiss an artist. Kiss a chess player. Kiss a waiter. Kiss a Parisian exchange student.

Don't do more than kiss. You're still my niece, and I still want to believe you're chaste and pure as your mother was at your...

Anyway, just stick to kissing. Kissing can't hurt; mono's the worst you can get from it, and you can get that from sharing wine glasses, so why not get it the fun way?

Every kiss, every hug, every date--good or bad--is a step in a direction towards learning that THERE ARE OTHER MEN WHO ARE NOT NAMED AFTER BLAND, BORING COLORS!!!

So go take those steps. Remember, in basketball you WANT to get the rebound--depending on which team you're on. Why should love be any different?

My fourth piece of advice--spread rumors about yourself. No, not about him. About you. You're in high school. You're surrounded by young, impressionable minds. You might as well make use of them.

Spreading rumors about other people can get you in trouble, but spreading rumors about yourself can skyrocket you into the popularity stratosphere.

Break-ups are difficult. Often, they're nobody's fault. This is NOT one of those times.

If this boy left you and broke your heart, he is wrong, and you are right. Is this because you're my niece who spit up on me at least twice a day for the first month of her life?

You bet your life it is.

This break-up is a war, and in this family, we win our wars.

That being said, the best revenge is, in fact, living well.

Strike that--the best revenge is living will and making damn sure that the idiot who left you knows just how well you're living.

So spread a few exaggerated stories. Get your three best girlfriends--I'm hoping you have at least three, and one needs to be the Miranda, remember that--have them talk about you constantly--even if it's only for one lunch period.

Have them tell people you're dating a college guy.
Have them tell everyone you're moving to Los Angeles.
Have the Charlotte tell people that she pulled you off the subway tracks.

What? We live in Ohio? There aren't subways?

WHO CARES?

It's high school. It's four years of suspended logic!

Once word gets back to Beige Boy that you're a hot topic of conversation, he'll rethink letting you go. Nobody likes having their ex be the talk of the town unless the talk is about them making an inappropriate videotape...

By the way, if you do get the urge to spread a rumor about Gray, go for the inappropriate videotape. It's a classic, and it never fails.

Fifth piece of advice: Buy a great dress. It's impossible to be depressed when you look so hot even you would date you. Go to school in that dress and then start a rumor that you have an inoperable brain tumor. The sympathy card is the best way to make people hate your ex. Why do you think everyone sides with Jennifer Aniston?

Sixth piece of advice: Flee. People tell you not to run from your problems. People have never seen a Miami sunset. Do you have any idea how hard it is to look at a Miami sunset and convince yourself that you'd rather be somewhere else?

Believe me, Julie, there's nothing gray about it.

Final piece of advice: Watch your mother. Your mother may seem like a shrew with untamed hair--and yes, she can be--but she's also a woman with a lot of strength in her. She was the one who gave me advice when my heart got broken. She was the one who heard me crying three floors up.

(We had an attic when I was growing up.)

I remember when you were born, queen among nieces. You were a little masterpiece. Your mother, your father, even your grandmother, and I all kept looking at you then each other--as if to say:

Is she real? Is she really real?

Then I remember your mother putting you to her chest and I swear I saw a transference take place. I swear everything good about your mother come straight through her chest into you.

That means you have her iron will and her determination and her unbelievable kindness.

And it means you have one hell of a tough heart.

So it's probably not broken, Jules. It's probably just doing what any good woman of style does--hide for a bit after a scandal, and then make a grand reentrance into the world.

And have I got a grand reentrance for you.

Your mother and I already talked. You're coming to stay with me in London this summer. I'm going to have you all to myself for three months. By the time I send you home you're going to have a tattoo, a trendy haircut, credit card debt, and one hell of a fake accent.

And that heart of yours? It's going to be one big, bright color.

You're going to look like a box of crayons, queen among nieces. I promise.

Love, Love, Love, and Love Again
Uncle Matt