How to Cure a Case of the Relationshits

You've had an icky feeling in the pit of your stomach lately.  It's a bloated, gurgly, crampy feeling.  It's like that sensation you have the morning following a night of heavy drinking, when you'd typically take a fantastic poo; suddenly, the universe goes, "Just kidding!"  Sorry.  No poo for you.  Your diet is good, you've been drinking plenty of water, and you've remained active.  Why this feeling of sickness?

You have the relationshits.

The relationshits kick into full gear during the holiday season.  You can't flip the TV channel without running into some commercial with a happy man and woman wearing matching Christmas sweaters.  She's got a cheesy grin on her face because he just proposed and he went to Jared.  It's probably cubic zirconia.

You turn off the TV to avoid the madness, and decide instead to read a book.  You pick up your Danielle Steel novel but double over in pain from the relationshits because your ex just sent you a four-page text message about how he misses you so much and can't move on.  He feels bad about how things ended and just wants to talk.  How do you put this delicately for him?  You two are like Breaking Bad.  It's over.  Find a new show, or perhaps the rerun you turn to when you're bored.

Maybe they make a pill for the relationshits.

Then you get a call from Aunt Gertrude.  She's letting you know that your fourth cousin twice removed just got engaged to a chiropractor.  She wants to know about your love life.  She starts to ask, "Have you met any--......probably not."  You tell Aunt Gertrude that you have to go because the relationshits are building up and you might not make it to the bathroom.

You turn to Pinterest because you're looking up Christmas cookie recipes, when it happens: relationshit quotes--or rather...a-lack-of-relationshit quotes.  There's this: 

And this, which almost pushes your relationshits over the edge: 

And this...which sort of makes your single-ness feel legitimate...but not quite: 

You're about to relationshit your pants.  But then you see this.  And you know it must be true because of the pretty blonde girl deep in thought strolling the beach in the background:

The blonde girl might be right.  Plus, when you're single, you can go to bed with zit cream on your face and legs that haven't been shaved in nearly a week.

...Hypothetically...

And with that, your nasty case of the relationshits starts to ease up.  You switch to Netflix to avoid any more unwanted commercials, tell your ex that he was boring in bed but you wish him well, and block Aunt Gertrude's number.  You never liked her anyway.  She has a mustache.