It’s true: all good things must come to an end. The best tv series come to jump the shark, Alanis Morissette records crap like this, BFFs become names you find on your cellphone without recalling who they are and love, above all things, is anything but endless.

What’s actually endless, though, is the debate on whether it’s easier to get dumped or to dump your beloved one. We’ve all played both parts at one time or another (although there’s some seriously dangerous serial dumpers out there!) and it was never easy.

Personally, I find especially difficult to be the one who dumps. The most memorable time, also known as “the time I almost died”, was probably when I dumped R.

Officially we were not even a couple, but after long-ish thought and after enlisting all the pros and cons I came to the conclusion that we had to stop dating.

Pro: he was a great kisser. Con: we lived far from each other. Not long-distance-relatioship far, but still one-hour-car-ride far. Which sucked. Pro:  His soft sexy lips on mine. Con: I was about to leave Italy and come to Berlin. Pro: He managed to get me in the library to study pretty often. Con: I spent half of the time in the library thinking about kissing him and the other half actually doing that in the toilets.

After a couple of months I realized I saw him more as a tongue donor than as a person and I wanted to break up. I came up with a very simple plan: we would meet at the usual parking lot, he would get in my car and say “hi”, I would say “hi. I don’t think we should date anymore”, he would start crying, I would cheer him up, he would stop crying, we would hug, he’d get out of the car and I’d be home in time to see the season finale of Desperate Housewives.

It looked easy. I also brought with me his DVDs of Little Britain even though I still wasn’t done with them. But of course none of this happened. First of all I let him kiss me, and after that words just didn’t come out, so I basically had to go out on a normal date with him. And what did he want to do that night? Going to the concert of a Spice Girls cover band? No. Watch ice skating on tv? No. He wanted to play pool.

That would have been totally fine, really, but one second after entering the smokey lousy bar in which we were gonna play pool on a friday night I realized what I was wearing. I had just put on the first thing that popped in my hands, cause I wasn’t really planning to get out of the car, and that thing happened to be my pink sweater with the picture of a kitten.

The moment I removed my jacket was the worst. My gay sweater lost in that sea of flaunted italian straightness was like a mentos in a bottle of Diet Coke. I felt all those macho eyes on my chest and I wanted to be anywhere but there. Anywhere. I bet an iranian prison would have been safer, for example.

I lost the game, by the way, but against all expectations I didn’t lose my life. And on the following time me and R met I managed to do things properly. I gave him the “we need to talk” message beforehand and just got straight to the point once he entered the car: God only knows whether he would have taken me to the stadium or to a box match that night.