I get asked how to get over a broken heart all the time. And my response is always the same: Pina Coladas. This is why I am a relationship master expert guru. I know so much about love, I change Cupid's diapers (he poops little peanut butter cups.)

This is non-gender specific advice. If you're a woman who has been done wrong, put that pint of ice cream down and pick up a Pina Colada. If you're a bro who's all busted inside, turn down the heavy metal music you're blaring in order to cover up your weeping and turn up the rum, pineapple juice and coconut milk.

I'm not saying you should go out and drink so much you wake-up fully clothed in the bathtub with a slice of pizza stuck to your face. But a Pina Colada is an airbag in the front end collision that is a break-up. This famous tropical drink transforms the brass knuckles of rejection into marshmallow peeps. It's not a cure, but a short cut to the onramp back onto the Highway of Love. Did he say "It's not you, it's me?" Did she taste like Steve? Can you return that engagement ring? Has he ignored your last 15 texts? Stop acting like there's an alien lizard worm gestating in your chest and you have minutes to live. This sucks. But don't insult the human heart -- thinking it can't take grief is like thinking the sky can't support the stars. Just do what I tell you to do. Order a Pina Colada at a bar where there's a jukebox playing funky tunes.

A bar where there are members of the opposite sex, so you can do some window shopping. Touch with your eyelashes. But I seriously encourage chatting, winking, and making out. Every time two human beings kiss, a flower blooms somewhere in the world. That's not true, of course. But it's a nice thought. I have never regretted making out with someone, only not making out. 

It helps to think of your heart as a piece of steel. Not chocolate or flesh or crepe paper. A shiny ball of steel.  Which has a breaking point. But have you ever seen steel forged? It's heated in a volcano hot furnace until it glows white. It's so hot, the hard steel is malleable. Then it's hammered and hammered and hammered. Smashed into shape. Two pieces are clobbered to form one whole piece and then the steel is dumped into water. Once it's cooled, it's as hard as... well, you know. I've had my heart broken many, many times. And each time, I ended up stronger. My furnace? A Pina Colada. Maybe some Patsy Cline. A new friend, if just for that moment.

Normally, as a dude, I don't drink cocktails. I like my liquor to be liquor-flavored. My favorite beer is in a can. Cocktails seem designed to obscure the taste of liquor, as if I drink it for the delicious flavor. I drink whisky because after a long day, I like my toes to be warm. Adult beverages should not taste like candy. Cocktails are fundamentally dishonest, booze dressed up like Rainbow Brite. I don't begrudge a lady who wants to enjoy a fruity drink, like an Appletini, or a Chocolatini or a Cheesecaketini. I'll be having a bourbon, neat. Water back.

However, I do make one exception to this rule: Pina Coladas. If I get dumped, I shuffle right up to the bar and order a Pina Colada. Coconut mug? Yes. Umbrellas? Two. Cherries, orange slices, and pineapple chunks skewered on a plastic sword? Please. Pina Coladas taste like beach. A gently rocking boat. The ocean is just one giant, salty tear. She cries with you, and calms your fever with a frosty wet kiss. A Pina Colada is a vacation in a blender. A sweet bubble. I have seen cowboys with faces hanging longer than curtains order a Pina Colada and five minutes later, you can see chunks of heart melt and reform like a liquid metal robot assassin from the future.  

All it takes is one. Do it. If there's a song comes on you're partial towards, sing it. Can't sing? Everybody can sing. The Power of the Colada compels you! Stomp your feet. Clap your hands. Unleash the Kraken! You know how they say time heals all wounds? Pina Coladas heal all wounds. Heal and reinforce them. My heart is made out of airplanes and suspension bridges and ninja swords.

I know other relationship writers have tons of advice on this topic. But I'm inclined to think that advice is crap on a waffle if it doesn't involve a night where you force yourself to shower, put on pants without elastic waistbands, and venture out into public. Actual public. Not Facebook. Facebook is not "public," it's a fun little website where advertisers mine your private life and then sell it back to you. Public, as in, inhaling the molecules of other human beings. If your heart is currently broken, and you're of drinking age, then I insist on having a Pina Colada. Drink responsibly. And eat the fruit, because it's good for you.

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