When I've been dumped, I've noticed that my friends tend to fall into two categories. There are the angry break-up music fans, who advocate blasting Alanis Morissette non-stop and burning voodoo effigies of my ex-boyfriend.
Other girlfriends advise me to "let it all out", which involves tears, ice cream and maudlin music that seems to confirm my fear that I'm now doomed to die alone and be consumed by my flatmate's feral cat once he runs out of food.
Since break-ups are somewhat like bereavements, I experience a whole range of emotions and my iPod playlist reflects this.
Stage one is Denial, which is like when accident victims wander around in shock.
This inability to accept reality leads to optimism, so the first post-break up night is often spent out with my girlfriends, dancing in a glittery little number to clichd tunes such as the M People's "Moving On Up" or Cher's "Believe". I pound sambuca shots and flirt with the fit Swedish bartender with thighs that could crack walnuts.
But I stop at flirting, since I'm still operating under the illusion that I'm in a relationship. It's only a matter of time before my ex-boyfriend calls... right?
The next stage, Anger, is usually accompanied by a five-alarm hangover that makes me feel there is a tiny little man stabbing out the back of my eyes. I blast Joy Division's "Love Will Tear Us Apart" and the Violent Femmes' "Kiss Off", and rant about my ex's shortcomings.
I may even call that bartender and have hot, angry sex with him, following the old adage that "you're never over someone until you're under someone else". Still no word from the ex... but I don't care! I was way too good for him, and wouldn't talk to him even if he came crawling back!
Stage three: Bargaining. OK, I've calmed down now and am ready to take responsibility for my role in the break-up. So I initiate irrational banter with the universe: if he will just come back and make the pain stop, I promise that I'll give in to all of his demands. On the playlist: Toni Braxton's "Unbreak My Heart". Yes, I'm that pathetic.
Once I realise that I have no control of the situation, stage four, Depression, hits hard.
I find that only country music can accurately capture the black hole I've fallen into, so I turn to tunes such as Patsy Cline's "I Fall to Pieces" or Johnny Cash, who wrote in "Flushed From The Bathroom of Your Heart", "In the garbage disposal of your dreams, I've been ground up dear/On the river of your plans, I'm up the creek/Up the elevator of your future, I've been shafted/On the calendar of your events, I'm last week."
Depression can linger far beyond the crying-on-the-sofa phase. Real heartbreak is paralysing, because it makes us numb and terrified of taking a risk again.
So, months later, when I do meet someone nice who asks for my phone number and I feel the fear kicking in, I turn to a bloated cowboy in a Stetson to get me to stage five: Acceptance.
When Garth Brooks sang in "The Dance", that we have to take risks in life because "I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance," it made me cry.
But I also realised that I would much rather regret something that I've done than something I didn't do. So I got my ass off that couch, dried my eyes and called the guy back.
Because, as the final lyric of "Closing Time" by Semisonic reminds us, "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."
Like many of my friends, I couldn't sympathise too much with the main characters in Indecent Proposal. Robert Redford, the gorgeous billionaire, offers Demi Moore $1m for one night with her. Greedily, her husband gives her permission to sleep with a man she's attracted to and this is meant to be a conflict?
Sorry, but the story would have been much more believable with Danny DeVito as the male lead. I've never taken money for sex, and always said I never would, but if it were a man who looked like Robert Redford on a bed of cold, hard cash, I would have to think very hard about saying no.
These decisions are not usually this black-and-white. At the top end of the sex industry are the escorts, who can charge from several hundred to several thousand pounds per night and have their pick of clients.
Several of my boyfriends, and my male friends, have been with prostitutes at one time or another even if they haven't told their girlfriends.
Not all women who sell their bodies are victims. Some women who have other options may choose to sell sex for a few hours per week over a 12-hour per day minimum wage gig at a call centre. Some would rather trade blow jobs to fund the latest Balenciaga bag.
But I was horrified to read a report recently that found in some parts of London, punters can buy full sex for 15 cheaper than buying a takeaway pizza. Unprotected sex is a mere 10 more. The reality of prostitution for these women isn't the Belle de Jour glamourised media version of Billie Piper in stilettos: it's gritty and terrifying. Human trafficking is happening here many women are lured here from countries such as Thailand and Brazil with false promises of working in bars and nightclubs, only to be sold to pimps, working under the constant threat of violence.
Still, I think it's wrong that the minister for women, Harriet Harman, is using the report to bolster her campaign to criminalise the sale of sex. This can't be the answer. It will lead to the equivalent of outlawing abortion: the services that people end up with will be even more dangerous.
Evidence from other countries, including Sweden, suggests that criminalising clients or sex workers can make things riskier not safer for those who trade sex. If the government could register (and tax!) brothels, clamp down hard on much more unsafe street prostitution, and ensure regular health and STD tests for sex workers, I believe both workers and clients would be safer and healthier.
But first, we must remove the moral judgements from the legislative process and accept the fact that sex always has, and always will, sell. The law of sexual supply and demand is illustrated at dinner parties, when my friends and I ask how much it would cost to buy them for the night, and post outrageous scenarios. It's just a game, but the end result is that everyone has a price. And as long as the sex takes place between two consenting adults, who are we to judge them?
Even during my hedonistic teenage years, somewhere in the back of my mind I had a "checklist" for my life. I'd envisioned meeting the man of my dreams at around the age of 29, and marrying by 30ish.
I did meet the man of my dreams at the age of 29, but I guess we took a wrong turn somewhere, and our relationship ran into a ditch. But if there is any truth in the saying "life is what happens when you make other plans", I think that the same logic would also apply to love.
Sexually, I was an early bloomer and a pretty wild teenager. I had an S&M relationship with my 24-year-old French teacher and held naked make-out parties in my swimming pool on weekends.
But, although I was adventurous and curious, I was much more concerned with having all the right moves when it came to pleasuring the boys than pleasing myself. Because of this, until the age of 19, I'd never had an orgasm (although I did some Oscar-worthy faking).
My moment of truth happened at university, when I went to see a sex educator speak candidly about self-love and show a video of women touching themselves.
The next day, I went to the chemist and bought a Hitachi Magic Wand vibrator (saying it was for "neck pain"), locked myself in my bathroom and came out 45 minutes later a new woman.
Once I realised that I had to take responsibility for my own pleasure, sex and relationships in my twenties were all about experimentation. There were the one, two, and three night stands, the lesbian flings, the scuba diving instructor who gave me my first orgasm through oral sex, the sex parties, and the man who taught me that men could have multiple orgasms too all discovered through random, amazing encounters.
While worrying about protecting myself from pregnancy and STDs, as I approached my mid-twenties I realised that I was also protecting my emotions perhaps a bit too well.
So I let someone in, and experienced my first real heartbreak. But even then, I got over it quickly, since relationships then were mostly about self-discovery and sharing experiences with my friends, with the men in supporting roles.
I'm glad that I did things this way round, before I had children or a husband.
Now that I've just hit my thirties, I'm ready to confine my wild bedroom antics to one (very lucky) man, and am convinced that my sexual exploration will make me a much better partner, both in and out of the bedroom. I'm more stable, confident, and happier than ever.
But dating is harder, because there is more on the line. I'm still undecided about children, but the reality of the biological clock means that I feel I have less time to waste on the wrong person, just in case I do decide to have kids.
Maybe this is because women put too much pressure on themselves to have it all. Despite the fact Cameron Diaz, 36, and Jennifer Aniston, 39, are gorgeous, rich and have amazing careers, they are the subject of constant headlines asking why they haven't already found "the One".
Meanwhile, everyone wants to know who will be lucky enough to finally land 47-year-old George Clooney, instead of questioning the wisdom of going out with a guy whose most intense emotional connection to date seems to have been formed with a pot-bellied pig.
But I think we could all learn something from George. He doesn't care about convention, and is blazing his own trail. I'm hoping to do the same, live my life and eventually find someone who can give me a mix of great conversation and swinging-from-the-chandeliers sex that will be as fantastic at 60 as it is at 30.
Boarding the flight to Las Vegas before a dramatic reunion with an ex-boyfriend who was most definitely trouble, I thought about how much of my love life I've based on what I've see on television and in movies.
I blame Hugh Grant's character in Four Weddings and a Funeral for my obsession with British men. I learnt that no matter how bumbling and repressed they seemed, they would come through in the end and declare their love, probably in the rain.
After all, this is the land of Shakespeare even if most of the men I've met here think that "courtly love" has something to do with Kurt Cobain.
Another common fantasy is the Sliding Doors moment the idea that, while on a mundane Tube journey, my eyes will meet those of a Colin Firth lookalike.
Never mind that most of the men who start conversations with me in the Tube tend to be asking for spare change. I keep hoping that somewhere, crammed among the sweat-stained masses, I will meet a man who won't baulk at the idea of having to give up his seat to the elderly man with a cane. (If he does, that's an instant deal breaker.)
My ex-boyfriend had always had trouble expressing his feelings, so when he invited me to meet him in Las Vegas, for some reason I thought that being forced to spend time together in a zany, crazy environment would bring us closer together.
If our weekend had been a cheesy romantic comedy, such as What Happens In Vegas, we would have hit the jackpot on a slot machine and married in a drunken ceremony, and the wacky adventures we spent together would have made him realise how much he loved me. Maybe this could even be a crazy story we told our grandchildren one day. After all, Ross and Rachel got married drunk on Friends, and it worked out for the best in the end.
When I got to the airport, Virgin very kindly gave me an upgrade, which I took as a good omen. I spent the entire flight sipping champagne and fantasising about my dress, which looked like the one Sharon Stone wore in Casino when she was shooting craps.
Perhaps the biggest myth that romantic movies perpetuate is the "moment of truth" that magical instant when a totally unsuitable couple realises that they are meant to be together, despite the fact that their relationship was totally dysfunctional up to that point. Usually this involves one or the other disrupting someone's wedding, or stopping them from boarding a flight at the airport.
The reality of Vegas was much more mundane. My ex and I had a nice time that weekend, but we didn't hit the jackpot. We had the same discussions we'd had back in London, and even after drinking the contents of the minibar our relationship problems did not disappear.
But I never regretted taking the risk, because love is a gamble: We invest our time, energy and commitment in anticipation of the "happily ever after" pay-off.
We had a final, dramatic movie moment when got into a final heated argument, and I left for the airport. But he didn't follow me in a taxi, or try to stop the flight.
When all else fails, meanwhile, I take inspiration from the ending of Sex and the City (the TV show, not the movie), when Carrie says that "the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one that you have with yourself."
Maybe I really didn't need a man to provide my happy ending. I'd already done it myself.
