Dear Jezzies,

I just had a knocked-on-my ass epiphany while reading the Clinton-campaign-as-break-up piece.

I was fired last week. Or more accurately, my boss hired a younger, hotter girl, then "realized" he couldn't afford to keep us both, and let me go because I "wasn't a good fit."

I've never been fired before, so I didn't know this, but it turns out being fired sucks. I feel like crap. My former coworkers have emailed and called and taken me to lunch. They all insist our boss was crazy to fire me, that the new girl doesn't know what she's doing, that he's freaking out about an upcoming department review and took it out on me. Blah blah blah. I still feel like crap.

But no longer. Because thanks to this piece, I now see that I wasn't fired. I was dumped.

I don't mean I was fucking my boss. Barf, no. But otherwise, the dynamic is exactly the same. And in hopes that perhaps this will be useful to your readers, I've worked out the details. Behold:

See? It all fits. Feel free to use any or all of this if it will make an interesting post. Ideally, there'd be a piece in the NYT to back me up on this theory, but apparently I'm ahead of the curve on this one. (Right? Right? I mean, it's not just that I'm desperately grasping at straws because I'm depressed about losing my job and trying not to slip into open despair. Ha! Ha! That would be ridiculous!)

I am kinda eager to see if I'm the only woman who's been fired and found out it feels a lot like being dumped, but I realize Jezebel isn't my personal laboratory to research whether my ex-boss is a one-of-a-kind jackass, or just a run of the mill cock.

* The desperation doesn't exactly help.

Uh yeah. I liked my job and I was good at it. For some reason, Jeff interpreted this as me "stressing out about work all the time." Funny thing, my other coworkers all seem to think I was really calm and easy-going. But since he replaced me with someone who forgets what she's doing every 7 1/2 minutes, I can see how my ability to work on something for an hour might seem like a desperate bid for approval. Asshole.

(Yes, as I write this email, I am accidentally falling into an imaginary conversation with Jeff. Sorry about that. But on the other hand, it is super cathartic.)

* He's met someone else who is just better on every level, maybe you should look into that "settling" thing.

Exhibit A: "Elaine," my giddy, 32C replacement. Exhibit B: All the little back-handed digs he made during our final conversation, about how he's heard that this or that much-less-respected competitor is looking for people who do what I do. I was working at the 3M of my industry, and this douchbag was all like, I've heard the black market tape factories in China are looking for help. Maybe you should give them a call.

See? It all fits. Feel free to use any or all of this if it will make an interesting post. Ideally, there'd be a piece in the NYT to back me up on this theory, but apparently I'm ahead of the curve on this one. (Right? Right? I mean, it's not just that I'm desperately grasping at straws because I'm depressed about losing my job and trying not to slip into open despair. Ha! Ha! That would be ridiculous!)

I am kinda eager to see if I'm the only woman who's been fired and found out it feels a lot like being dumped, but I realize Jezebel isn't my personal laboratory to research whether my ex-boss is a one-of-a-kind jackass, or just a run of the mill cock.

My Mentor Dumped Me!

You represented a "type" he used to like that he is now over.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the individuals in my life that bring both positive and negative energy, and I've come to the conclusion that you are one person in my circle for which it's time to let go. This wouldn't be so hard, if it wasn't for that icy glare that I can't get enough of, which actually started me on this kick for being instantly attracted to women that look like a real axe wielding bitch from a short distance, but somehow still so sexy; you know the type. I'm trying to move on from that stage, and I'm beginning with you, Mrs. Clinton.

Dear Hil, I'm really sorry that this all had to happen this way. It's gotten all mucked up and I understand that I am partially responsible for that. I should have cut it off cleanly when I had the chance. I should have been stronger after Iowa. I should have used a much firmer tone after super Tuesday. I really should have written this letter after Barack and I won 11 states together, all in a row. But I didn't. I was a coward and for that I'm sorry. But now, Hil, come on. It's over hun. Let's not make a big scene. I'm moving on. I have to. It's not you. It really isn't. It's me. I want change Hillary. I want hope and progress. I even want inspiring speeches. All the best.

It's not you. It's me. Wait, I take that back. It's you. That empty stare. Those starched pants suits. The comic timing of a plank. Yeah, it's definitely you.

Hillary since day one you've sounded like my mom yelling at me. I'm done.

In the beginning things were great, really. And I know you're feeling insecure and helpless these days, but I just can't take the lies and drama anymore. I want change...new experiences...and you just can't give me what I need. Please understand. And please, Hil, stop with the 3 am phone calls, we're not 17 anymore.

Oh Hillary, what can I say? I think it's time we move on and go our separate ways. I can't take all of the crying, the overacting, the out and out lies, the drama. In the end, the times we had were never really all that great to begin with, right?

I'm not trying to make excuses, but college was a drug induced blur. What I knew as a young girls coming of age "experimentation" you mistook for genuine emotion. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. I thought you knew what this was. I've moved on. I'm happy now.

listen hil...yeah, for a while there i thought that maybe i could be with a woman...but i mean i was really really drunk that night we met...and quite honestly, you just can't satisfy me like he does. i thought that maybe i was giving up on you too quickly...so i tried to make it work, i really tried baby. but in the end he's all that i can think of.

He's met someone else who is just better on every level; maybe you should look into that "settling" thing!

i thought this was right at first. i really did. i'd seen you around; you seemed so smart and ambitious, and i really liked that. this isn't about you, hill; it's about him. that's right - i'm switching teams, and i'm sorry, but this guy obama is making me feel things i've never felt before: hopeful, proud. please, don't keep in touch.

Why, long after the fucking has stopped, do the arguments seem to continue? I found myself pondering this question last weekend, and wrote an open letter to my friend Don, with whom I had a brief courtship following an episode during which he tried to grope me in his sleep while hosting my friends during the 2006 Pitchfork Festival. It ended stupidly, but we remain close friends. And yet he often insists on talking about how it ended, and more to the point, how its end was orchestrated by me. Welcome to our first edition of "Closure Chronicles," in which the pointless pursuit of some nebulous sense of satisfaction is held under the lens we generally reserve for figuring out who stopped calling who first.

That is what you wanted. Why are you claiming now that's not what you wanted? Here's what we both know; infatuation is irrational, a real shitshow of distracting neurotransmitters that demand you attend to them constantly, and the process of converting that state into some sort of plausible romantic union is as delicate and tricky as the ensuing romantic union is invariably kinda meh.

You have to be at once courageous and retarded, supremely chill and impulsive, which is why you have all that sex in the first place, to avoid thinking about who the fuck you think you are that you're going to pull this off. So look, it's no big deal that you weren't up for that this time, but why must you act as though it was me who fucked it up? I'm the professional here. I don't have "pride." Except to the extent that I of course have some pride, duh I am human, but you can't well write about astrology on the internet and make pride a welcome concern in your brain. I come from a fair and logical position. Everyone who knows anything about me and/or you knows that you fucked it up. Maybe because you...just weren't that into me? Who knows? It doesn't matter. Why are you still trying to win the argument? Why am I? Trying to win through reason the rights to write the inscription on our little monument to the limits of unreason, when we all know what they say about history and losers like me. So there, you do, actually, win. You win! But by losing I actually win.

Dear Moe:

This is seriously how it happened...1. i liked you — a little too much (think LD can work between adults), say stupid shit to you. 2. you think "wow, this is some stupid shit. you're kinda ridic. stop being like that." 3. i think "maybe she's right." and chill on that LD talk (slow things down [see what i did there?]).4. things kinda stay like that for a while: arms-length. i kiss a girl. you get mad. i didn't know you would care. 5. i think "man, i'm very careless with other people's feelings." then i think "wait, i'm an asshole. and so is she." 6. we are totes cool with each other. How do assholes love each other? i'm pretty sure i can't handle anyone who doesn't treat me with some kind of disdain or unimportance. (insert groucho marx quote made famous by annie hall) On the other hand I can't have you be mad at me, so I do the "you're mad, so i'm mad." thing... of course, i've set it up so i'll never be hurt again. it's been working well.

In other news, you know our mutual pussywhipped friend Brian? Breaking up with his girlfriend was the best thing he's ever done. He has fucked like four girls in his office already and is even allowed to laugh at Stella again. Thanks for the mention, though. Perhaps renting High Fidelity would help?