No, really: STOP IT.

(NOW: You can read Dategirl every day on the Daily Weekly!)   Dear Dategirl, I started working with "M" about a year ago. He was cute, but he had a fiancée, so I crossed him off the possibility list. As we got closer, he started confiding about how unhappy he was about his engagement. I encouraged him to try couples counseling. She refused, and they eventually broke up. He immediately started pursuing me, even though we both agreed it was too soon. Our relationship (sue me, I caved) was very intense for a few months, and then he freaked out and left me. We tried to stay friends, but it was just too hard. We'd always start off friendly and end up naked by the end of the night. Our sex was—there aren't words. But within a few weeks he would lose it again and disappear. Eventually, I told him not to contact me. He stayed away for a while, but then began e-mailing again. He sent me one of the most heartbreaking love letters I've ever read. He was moving to L.A. and was saying goodbye, even though he knew we'd be great together. Fast-forward a month, and I hear he's not moving to L.A. and is seeing someone new. I was furious. He sent me a benign happy-birthday e-mail, and I let loose. I don't know what he wants from me. He doesn't know what he wants from me. At this point, our breakup has lasted longer than our relationship. I know I'm complicit, because I keep letting myself get sucked back in. He needles this sore spot where I feel utterly rejected and mad, and that's why we couldn't be friends after we broke up. Basically, what the fuck? —Driving Miss Crazy Regardless of your feelings about New Year's resolutions, I am making one for you: NO MORE CRAZY. Woman, you are dickmatized, and it's making you mental. You don't love him; you love the way his lab-experiment-gone-awry body chemistry makes you feel alternately off-kilter, euphoric, or (most often) miserable. He is your drug. And you know what happens to people who get hooked on drugs, don't you? They wind up getting a stern talking-to from five of their nearest and dearest, along with Intervention's Candy Finnigan. As I'm sure will be a surprise to absolutely nobody, I have fallen prey to dickmatization in the past. And so I know firsthand that unlike other addictions, where you can wean yourself off slowly, you will never be undickmatized unless you go cold turkey, Jerky. That means blocking his e-mail address and Facebook page, and listing him in your phone under "Oozing Pus-Encrusted Sore." In cases of extreme dickmatization, it does no good to simply delete his number; you need to be reminded of the pain he causes when he calls, or if you decide to drunk-dial. Because since we're not doing crazy in 2011, you'd have to be wasted to bother calling him, right? Once it sinks in that his dance partner in the Nutso Shuffle has gone AWOL, expect him to amp up his wooing efforts. These types are as predictable as my next period cramp; it's up to you to be strong and resist. If you weaken and can't bear the thought of not responding to his e-mails, answer the next one this way: Dear Fuckface [or you could just use his name], Either you're ready to be in a committed, monogamous relationship with me or you need to leave me the fuck alone. I have enough friends, and don't need to torture myself by hanging out with the likes of you. I will accept silence as your acceptance of Plan B, because there's nothing more to talk about. Sincerely, Sally P. Growaspine And then stop it. No, really: STOP IT.

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