Where are you Tallulah?

I have always considered myself unlucky in love. I have always aspired to be a wise-cracking, witty, fearless, passionate, fickle, wry Tallulah Bankhead type. The kind of woman who allows herself the same amount of time to mend a broken heart as it takes her to mend a broken nail. Someone who discards ne're-do-well suitors at the first sign of trouble, with the surety, grace and confidence of one who knows she deserves better. However, in reality I seem destined to be perpetually cast into the Olivia de Havilland role. A doe-eyed victim who tolerates endless disappointments with a meek acceptance.

How I long to find my inner-Tallulah! I have tried red lipstick, high heels, oceans of gin but to no avail. (I would be tempted to try chain smoking, but my meagre teacher's salary will not run that far, but I do think I'd look rather elegant with an ivory cigarette holder). Talluah evades me again. And, I can't help but think that if, in the words of Tallulah, 'only the good girls keep diaries, the bad girls don't have the time' then the same can be said of blogs.

Tell me Tallulah, how would you handle being dumped by a swarthy fanny-rat a few meagre hours after your dog died? What is the appropriate response?