Breaking up is hard to do...

My friend is breaking up with her boyfriend. Slowly. Painfully. Wishy-washily. One day he completes her, the next day he's disrespecting her. One day she's moved out, the next day she's lugging her bags back to the house. One day they're calling each other 'Stubbles' and 'Bubbles' (for real--I could not have made that up) and the next--you get the point. Finally, I confront her:

"This is about the make-up sex, isn't it?"

She gives me wide-eyed innocence. "Hmmmm?"

"The sex. The awesome make-up sex you have after a big fight, right? That's why you're taking so long to dump him."

Pained expression. I have offended her delicate sensibilities. Then, "Well...(sigh, eye roll)...yeah. It's just so...passionate."

"Yes. Passionately dysfunctional. Don't forget the dysfunctional part." Call me Debbie Downer, but she needs a reality check. In about a week she gets one, but not from me.

"He hucked a BURRITO at me!" My friend is indignant and incredulous at her boyfriend's behavior the night before, and has decided to ignore my last remark and confide in me once again. "A BIG BOY burrito--he freakin' HUCKED it at me and it HIT ME IN THE CHEST." She points sharply at her chest as though my gross anatomy skills are not up to par.

I attempt to respond with the appropriate level of shock and awe: "Shut. Up. No he did not!"

"Yuh-huh! And HE GOT IT ON MY COAT." My friend excels in capital letter speak. Not everyone can get away with this, but for her, it's a gift.

Let me explain why this burrito hucking is a big deal: A successful restaurant chain here in town offers "fresh and healthy" Mexican food. Fresh, absolutely, and healthy, maybe if the portions were a quarter of their actual size. To be hit in the chest with a Big Boy burrito is to have the wind knocked from your lungs. Still she wavers on whether or not to call it quits. He must be an incredible maker-upper.

He starts staying out all night, hitting the clubs (or what passes for clubs in our tiny metropolis) and coming home after she's left for the day. He spits on her windshield and offers bitter commentary on her aloof behavior. Most remarks resemble bad rap lyrics: "Man, you must think you aiight. You must think you soooo tight." Jay-Z, watch out--Stubbles is a star on the rise.

Today I asked her how it is that she is still taking this crap. She looks sheepish, and says she's actually carried out her own brand of revenge. Really? What's she done? Has she gone Carrie Underwood and dug her key into the side of his pretty little souped-up 4 wheel drive? Carved her name into his leather seats?

"Worse!" she says with a proud smile.

Did she pawn his bling? Have all his pants altered to fit nicely at the hip instead of barely clinging to the widest part of his ass?

"Worse!" she covers her face with her hands.

"WHAD'U DO?!?" Now she's got me speaking in capital letters.

"I...I swirled his toothbrush in the TOILET!"

She looks so pleased and vindicated; so full of clever ingenuity. She's a sweetheart, and will hopefully be done with this loser any day now. For some reason I decide I won't mention that I may or may not have done the very same thing to a deserving boy when I was her age, or that maybe I went a baby step farther and scrubbed the inside of the bowl with it just a little. Maybe.