It took a pretty sick screenwriter to come up with this psycho thriller, but it’s Linda Fiorentino who brings to life a psycho girlfriend who happens to be the biggest bitch in the universe.

Mike Swale: I'm trying to figure out whether you're a total fucking bitch or not.
Bridget Gregory: I am a total fucking bitch.

Sure, it was funny. And really, really cynical too, which is always fun. But what we value most about this show was how it managed, in every single episode, to express the eternal and sacred truth that people (our friends and selves included) are largely not worth the bother.

And if that wasn't enough, it was the only show in history to offer more reasons for breaking up with a person than for being with them in the first place, including... laughing too much, never laughing, having "man hands", eating peas one at a time, wearing the same outfit on every date, your parents like her, she finishes your sentences, being contaminated by a toilet, and not allowing you to talk in her 'stomach voice'.

So as to leave no doubt in the listener's mind regarding Lennon and McCartney's feelings on infidelity, the phrase "I'd rather see you dead" appears in the song three times, as in...

Well I'd rather see you dead, little girl
Than to be with another man
You better keep your head, little girl
Or I won't know where I am

In this rollicking, gut busting comedy, an independent-minded, free-spirited woman is sold by her father as chattel to a brutish and egotistical opportunist. He then subjects her to mental and physical punishments to break her will. She finally acquiesces to him, as only a brain-washed victim of sustained cruelty would to the one inflicting the torture.

A jealous Julian Sands cuts off the arms and legs of Sherilyn Fenn to keep her around the house. The real victim is Kim Bassinger who lost a $9 million lawsuit for refusing to make the movie.

Poor Uwe Vandrei. For three years he pours his heart out, email by email, to singer Sarah McLachlan, telling her how much he loves her, how they're "meant to be together", how she'd better not be fucking looking at any other men, how she's a fucking slut who deserves to have her head bashed in with a rock—you know, pillow talk. She writes a number one song out of it. And what does he get? A restraining order, his suit for co-authorship of the song thrown out, and finally death, by his own hand. Love stinks.

Love is a communicable biotechnological disease. Love will cause you to crash into other drivers and have sex with their wounds. Love will compel you to stick your tongue into strangers' spinal bioports. Love will make you french kiss your TV and pleasure your moist, rippling bellybutton with a handgun. What's not to love about this guy?

It’s so nice
to wake up in the morning
all alone
and not have to tell somebody
you love them
when you don’t love them
any more.

The melancholy album with not one, but two gloomy post-relationship songs in which the singer confesses his culpability in a burst of tragic self-awareness. In "Don't Change Your Plans" he substitutes the phrase "I love you, goodbye" for a real explanation for his flight; and in "Mess" we learn that...

I don't believe in love
and I can't be changed
all alone as I've learned to be
in this mess i have made... the same mistakes
over and over again.

With such lyrics as “Fuck you and your untouchable face” and “When I say you sucked my brain out, the English translation is I am in love with you and it is no fun,” this album almost makes breaking up worthwhile. You don’t have to attend Sarah Lawrence to feel this grrl’s pain, but it helps.

so fuck you
and your untouchable face
fuck you
for existing in the first place
and who am i
that i should be vying for your touch
who am i
bet you can't even tell me that much

A mundane marriage interwoven with epic infidelity?! Set to poetry?!! Tell me more! This book of poems, named after a football stadium, named after a grassy idyll that no longer exists due to the football stadium, offers all the Grecian bitching of the Odyssey alongside all the modern day snarkiness of marriage’s constant comment!

Good thing all the longhairs were too stoned to listen to the lyrics (eg. "Love hurts, love scars/love wounds and marks") while they slow-danced to it with their old lady. Talk about harshing your buzz, man.

Some fools think of happiness
Blissfulness, togetherness
Some fools fool themselves I guess
They're not foolin' me

With each successive repetition of the title line, we eventually move through all five phases of grief. Finally: acceptance. The suicide note has been drafted. Now sign it.

I want you
Did you call his name out as he held you down
I want you
Oh no my darling not with that clown
I want you
You've had your fun you don't get well no more
I want you
No-one who wants you could want you more
I want you
Every night when I go off to bed and when I wake up
I want you
I want you

Who's up for some good old fashioned cuckolding? John Dowell's wife Florence fucks everybody but him, including his best friend, the "good soldier," Edward Ashburnham. Edward fucks everybody but his wife Leonora, who wishes he'd just fuck the teenage Nancy and get it out of his system. Nancy's moral quandary over whether or not to fuck Edward drives her mad, Florence dies of vapors once she realizes Edward loves Nancy, Dowell spends the rest of his life taking care of young Nancy who is now so damaged that she can utter only one word ("Shuttlecocks"), and Edward slits his throat with a pen knife.

Because if you ever dated anyone who started one of these diets you know what it’s like to be BORED TO FUCKING DEATH.