Love is a funny thing; in all ways. It’s funny like “ha-ha” and it’s funny like “that looks odd”. Sometimes, when I think about the weird sh** that happens when it comes to matters of the heart, I think the wonderful Italian word amore should be changed to anomore. Yes, sometimes that would be much more appropriate. Especially when it comes to ‘Bad Love’. And when I say bad love I don’t mean like Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance. I mean baaaaad luuuurve.

Bad love is that most disastrous of all things emotional. In fact, bad love is so horrendous, it’s comparable to getting your hair stuck in the dryer, then burning the top of your palate and lips with hot tomato and finally, shocking yourself on the kettle.

Bad love is when you feel like you’re dying with flu and your beloved simply farts, rolls over and changes the channel when you tell them how wretched you feel.

Bad love is when you have a full day of meetings at work and when you need your love to pick up the dog from the vet, your significant other says he or she can’t because he/she is “meeting friends for drinks”.

But, the worst bad love of all – the tripping-off-the-balcony or falling-flat-on-your-face-at-a-party kind of love – is the one where you beloved tells you they’re leaving you for someone else.

That happened to a friend of mine recently. Whatever the reasons behind the split, she and all her friends know she’ll come out of it better at the end, but the fact of the matter is, it’s still super smoking cracking bad love that makes your eyes swell up and hair fall flat.

The thing is bad love can happen to anyone. Money, power, success and shiny shoes will not – I repeat, will not – save you from bad love: Tiger Woods boning everyone but poor Elin Nordegren, Tommy Lee kicking Pamela and her Double DDs, Meg Ryan bonking Russel Crowe while she was still married. Tut tut tut.

If you’ve ever had a dose of bad love, it’s important to know that some people have had it way, way, way worse.

I mean, you could have received the “original” love letter copied and pasted below. Damn. Damn Dan. What a dumb damn Dan. (This has been on the net before so you might have already seen it...)

Anyway, because I am feeling so passionate about Bad Love at the moment, I’ve started a Facebook Group called 'Anomore: Down with Bad Love!'. Join it. Let’s fight this evil beast together!

Send me your worst/best Bad Love stories - serious or funny, simple or complex - and I will pop them up on here. (I won't mention your name if you don't want me to. Just alert me to the fact though...)
Send them to angela.hundal@gmail.com

Hope to chat soon!

The "original" love letter

Dear Connie ,

I know the counselor said we shouldn’t contact each other during our “cooling off” period, but I couldn’t wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I’d never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride has cost me a lot of things. I’m tired of pretending I don’t miss you. I don’t care about looking bad anymore. I don’t care who makes the first move as long as one of us does.

Maybe it’s time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says “There’s no one like you, Connie.” I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they’re not you. They’re not even close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with me. I don’t say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation.

She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Tits like you wouldn’t believe and an ass that just wouldn’t quit. Every man’s dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we’ve made important in our lives. It’s all so superficial.

What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes, but you see what I’m getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Connie? I doubt it. And I’m never really thought of that before.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just growing up a little. Later, after I’m tossed her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, “Why do I feel so drained and empty?” It wasn’t just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn’t feel the same because you weren’t there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Connie, I’m just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.

Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she figured I wasn’t eating right without a woman around. I didn’t know what she meant till later, but that’s not the real story.

Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we’re banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart’s a total monster in the sack. She’s giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when she’s not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us. And all of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother’s old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves. And it’s totally hot, but it makes me sad, too. Cause I can’t help thinking, “Why didn’t Connie ever put the mirror on the floor? We’ve had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex toy.”

Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vicky’s just a kid and all, but she’s got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she’s been a real friend to me during this painful time. She’s given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She’s pulling for us to get back together, Connie, she really is. So we’re doing Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times. Here’s this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry.

And then it turns out Vicky’s really into the whole anal thing, that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fuelled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I’m thrusting inside your baby sister’s cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you. It’s true, Connie. In your heart you must know it. Don’t you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away and start fresh? I think we can.

If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.

Otherwise, can you let me know where the fucking remote is.

Love, Dan