So take a break from the research you're doing for that trepanation pop-up book you're working on and enjoy...
CURING A BROKEN HEART BY BREAKING INTO YOUR HEAD
Samuel Clementine the 3rd had reached the end of his frayed, weathered and pissed upon rope. His beloved buttercup had left him for a muscle bound grave-digger, a rapscallion who, after having been employed to bury the poor woman's departed father, had concocted stories about seeing his spirit. Samuel Clementine the 3rd would have no congress with snake-oil charlatans and refused to allow his lovely, button of a wife to converse with this man who seemed to have untoward aims in his eyes. But his sugar-piglet was seduced by the promise of stories of her father's spiritual status and one morning she was gone with nothing but a misspelled good-bie note.
After her departure, Samuel Clementine the 3rd was a different man. He drank spirits, smoked cigars, used the Lord's name in all sorts of vainglorious ways and played poker often all on the same occasion; previous to his tragedy he had only allowed himself one vice a week but now they came on like gangbusters.
Yet this errant behavior was not fated to last as beneath it all was a sorrow too deep to deny. His poker cards were often drenched in tears and his alcohol was watered down by his blubbering.
And after sobering up, two months to the day his pussy-willow-pillow left him, Samuel Clementine the 3rd set upon all manner of cures: from tea-reading Chinamen to diviners who tried to locate the hairline fracture in his heart at the end of a twig.
But it was only until an incompetent trepaneur from Normandie came with a drill and a promise to release all the sorrows trapped in his head, that Samuel Clementine the 3rd was put out of his misery.
For eight dollars and 32 cents.
"Oh dearest honey-bucket of love," were his last words.
Dear reader, avoid the fate of Samuel Clementine. Call your sweet-heart by her real name.