The Last time I saw Dick

The last time I spoke to my husband was a year ago, he contacted me- first time since the separation hearing- because he got a letter informing him that he had to pay property tax on our flat, and it wasn’t fair. As I read his name, there was a flood of emotion. Not hatred, not hatred. Just the memory of when his name went with mine, when we were tied up together. His name, his name, the name I was forced to sign after my own on the act of sale when we bought the apartment, even though I didn’t take his stupid name because I didn’t want to, and I already had my own double barrelled name anyway. But they were all men around the table.

There was the ancient white haired notary, impeccable, ivory hands like a pope’s, latest in a long line of king’s lackeys, Oh the money that man skims off the top. The cream of my life’s earnings. Then my father, shaking hands and knocking his fist on the table, asking if it’s mahogany, one piece? What a table. One solid piece of wood. One of these for the office, eh? Waggling his eyebrows at me. So alien to us, the legal, the formal world. He’s a businessman, there’s a certain amount of respect for him even though he’s scruffy and unconventional with bitten cuticles and a battered leather briefcase. Me, dressed up nice, makeup, well groomed for an Irish woman but not quite up to Italian standards. I was just a little girl to them, playing house, peering over the shoulders of the men. And there we were, my dad, my Papi, who was getting more estranged from me every day, and my husband, and then the owner, a weasly man waving his hand sickly to indicate all the properties he owned, who regarded our odd little family with some disgust. Foreigners, and an Italian who didn’t drive or dress in the style he could clearly afford to. Those men, they just looked at me blankly as I said I didn’t want to sign his name after mine on all the documents.

Why should I?  I elected not to take his name when we married. Isn’t a signature something important, something expressive? How could I SIGN a name that isn’t mine? They just looked at me and said “that’s how we do things in Italy.” I said no, it’s not my name. There were so many pages in that document, each to be signed. Each page. And it wasn’t my name. But my dad said this isn’t Ireland, this is how it goes here. I bristled. The little notary added, trying to help, trying to move it all along, because his time was more money than I could imagine, he said “it’s so we know who you are, who the document is talking about.” Without my husband’s name at the end, presumably, I could have been anyone, anyone. I wonder if an unmarried couple buys a house, how the hell anyone knows whose name that is, with the female name, the name unattached to any man mentioned. Who is she, if not someone’s wife?

But this feminist blather, I couldn’t even begin to verbalise. I was outnumbered, and making too much of it, so I swallowed the bile and gracelessly signed around 80 times, 80 times, like I’d been a bad girl, 80 times to drill it into me, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, over and over as the men watched until I had hot tears stinging my eyes, and I fell into a place where the words had a beat, and it drummed through my fingers, Abby Natascha Di Gianni Flicker in Garcia Ramirez, again and again and again and my fingers cramped and seized up, it wasn’t fair, nothing was fair, I was buying a lousy little apartment that needed work, and I was the only one of us with any money at all, and I was putting my every penny into the notary fees, to pay the little man, and the estate agent fees, so Graziella could have her Jimmy Choos, the odious woman, almost deformed by her sense of style. Blue mascara and perma tan and frosted lips, and everything so bright and lifted, a sad caricature of youth.

All my money, my grandparents’ generous gift to me, into this apartment with this man, and I loved him still then, but then I know that I had learnt to love alongside hate, too. Stubbornly, because I didn’t want to let go of love wherever I found it, it was too intoxicating. And I sort of always hated him, from the beginning, when he was awful and cruel and used me. And made me feel stupid, or invalid, or like a silly woman, when I was so much cleverer than him. Perhaps that was why he did it.

So I handed over the money, all those thousands, I never saw money like that before or since, and the notary thanked me but it was nothing to him. It was just some kids playing house, plankton, and he had such big fish. But it was all the money I ever had. And then three years later, a year ago, maybe, he emails me, this man whose name I signed with mine, his name brings me back to that table made from one piece of mahogany and impregnated with the metallics of sweat and money. And after his name, after I let myself float off into venomous memory, it subsides, and I can read the message.

We haven’t spoken in so long, it’s surreal to converse with him. Scary, because for so long he’s inhabited a world that’s unchangeable, fixed- that is, the past, but now he’s writing to me and I remember how volatile and poisonous he became, so I’m very aware that this exchange now is not fixed, this is all being written as I write, as I choose my reply. Choose carefully. He holds some power still, to fuck with my life. So I read and reread, and think before I type. He says they’re asking him for property tax, but it’s not fair, because he doesn’t even live in the apartment, so why should he pay? Oh, fair. That word. What is fair? Who teaches us the word, even? What use does it have? The last time you could judge a thing to be fair, I believe it was a birthday party and somebody was cutting the cake with Pythagoras theorems and a spirit level. I point my index finger at the computer screen and its neighbours squeeze tight into a fist. It’s a strange gesture, I’ve never made it before. But I must be physical, or I’ll burst something in my head. My jaw is clenched too.

Oh you you you… Not fair. Not fair to leave me with the whole mortgage, and all those old bills, and never pay, knowing if you don’t I will, and if I don’t, my father has to, because he’s our guarantor. And all the money I put in, and all the money my dad put in, and then you say it’s not fair I get to live in the apartment.

When I told my lawyer, the bitch with the sexless frame stamped in Versace, when I told her he moved out, and never paid me another cent, she told me firmly, you’re a fool. she didn’t think much of my dad or I. She was polite to him, and talked to me like I hadn’t just got married too young, but more like I’d come over from Estonia and given my passport and money to a man in a van who claimed he was a modelling agent. She glared at me as I spoke, her jaw sharp enough to castrate, and I never knew if I was giving her too much information or too little, but she thought I was a damned fool for not trying to get anything from him when we split, and not just that, but to lose money too.

I asked her if I could sue him for the money he owed me, but she said no, there was no point, it would cost more to sue than I’d get back. And he could just skip the country anyway. That wasn’t fair. Debt is an awful thing, it hangs around your neck like a bag of rocks, and it hurts because it’s heavy but also you remember when you picked up those rocks, and you remember that you made that choice for yourself, back then, and you didn’t care it would hurt now because it was good then. It was hard to be stuck in Italy for a year on my own, with a separation, having lost my closest ally in the country, and custody of all our friends, and with my little sisters wanting to cheer me up but lacking the tools, because they were too young. And with that debt, but it was worse still because it wasn’t my debt, and I hadn’t picked up the rocks.

They were his, him, the man with the name, the name they slapped on me, and he left when he wanted, he moved on as soon as he was ready, he met a new girl, kept the visa from our marriage, met his new girl. An Italian. She’s older than me, less attractive, simpler looking. The kind of girl a man would go crazy to love, because she’d make him happy. Not me. I don’t make men happy. I drag them down, and up, and down again. I’m sweet sometimes but then maybe too sweet, and then I’m all claws and pathos and I need, need need. And I’m not sure of anything but I’m passionate about it all, passionately optimistic, but nihilistic, and obsessive and compulsive and impulsive and lazy and hopeless and full of scorn. A woman like that, all simplicity, grounded, real; god, I’ve looked down on that kind of wman but she could make a man happy.

I don’t feel jealous, no, he’s a stranger now, I look at his face and I don’t even know if I remember anything about him, anything I used to know, his secrets, his face, the lines… Oh yes, but there were lines under his eyes, in a sort of network, I remember looking at them, scrutinising his face and thinking he’s older than me, he’ll die first, and I’ll be so lonely without him. But that was another face, and another version of me. there isn’t a grain left of the girl who loved him or cared if he lived or died. I’m not jealous, not of that petty, greedy, mean bully. I’m not jealous. It just feels sad, sometimes, that the people who aren’t good enough for me, supposedly, well, they’re much more capable of finding happiness. Simplicity, and perhaps humility. I find it harder now,because I want so much, and I start to wonder if all my self satisfaction isn’t just self soothing, and maybe i don’t have anything to offer a man after all.

Maybe I’m just young, and men are attracted to me, and I’m intelligent, so I tell myself I’m this full package, this wonderful woman, too good for most I meet. But I’m lonely, now, sometimes. Not in my own thoughts. It’s the physical space, it starts to feel like time for me to move on, onto someone, try it again, more sensible this time, less of a fool, or a different kind of fool. I’m not jealous he moved on, I’m just sad that he’s better at it than I am, that I’m the one still recalling these moments with anger because he’s the last person to share my life, and I haven’t found someone to fill that space since, not really. And tonight, he wrote to me again, a year since we last exchanged some curt, emotionless words, and tonight he asks not for money, but for information. When are we getting divorced? When can we apply? Can we already? Are we good to go?

It occurs to me, he wants to marry his girlfriend. I tell him October. We’ll need a lawyer. A lady told me we could share one, if it’s amicable. I snorted.

Amicable, like our marriage. He never hit me.

He never hit me. But I took a fucking pummelling.

Tonight I tell him October, and I’m about to say we need a lawyer, but I choose not to. I don’t need to enter a discussion with him now. I can’t bear to let him back into my reality. He’s boxed up, fixed, sealed, he stays the same, in the past. If I engage with him now, I can’t… it’s all old. It’s all been pored over, I’ve woven all my own justifications around the past, processed everything, and now I’m firmly in the right, and I didn’t hurt him, no, he deserved it. And anyway I was hurt too.  And he got a visa, and I got his debt. So it’s all set in stone, and let it rest. Please.

But sooner or later i’ll have to not just engage, but speak face to face with him.

With husband. Dick.

The last time I saw Dick was Italy, two years ago, and I had lost weight and given up smoking and I felt so good and happy to be casting off the things that held me, that saddened me. I wore a blue dress I’d bought before our wedding, that I’d considered getting married in but it was a bit tight and then it got too tight altogether as I put on weight.

I had never worn it before, and he didn’t know it was nearly my wedding dress. But I knew, and it gave me a secret power. I wore it confidently, looking great, looking much better than I looked on my wedding day. I felt better. I felt free, or closer to it than ever. In the pit of my stomach was a little twisted piece of pleasure, because I was wearing a dress I couldn’t wear while we were together, and now I was better, a better version of myself without him. We met outside and walked in, the Palazzo di giustizia, big awful hideous eyesore, reminds me always of the Ministries in 1984. Minitru, Miniluv… We walked past staircase A, B, C… it’s a huge complex. A path runs all around, and it takes ages. Lawyers everywhere. The invisible strings of money and power whipping past as heels clicked neatly. Ball stomping heels.

We made small talk. Waited outside the courtroom, finally were ushered in. An old man, a beautiful old man with crinkled eyes and an appropriately gentle smile for us,  in a little room. He was the judge, apparently. I expected an amphitheatre of a court room. Of course it wouldn’t be that. It was a little office. We sat in rows facing the judge. Mari Angela, my lawyer. Dick. Me. I remembered our wedding day. The stony faced registrar asking do you, and Dick bellowed “ABSOLUTELY.” And I was embarrassed, a little, and annoyed that he did it and not I, and then I was going to be the boring one who said I do.

But the judge read our statement made nine months before when we had really split, and the terms of the separation, which I craned my neck to see because I remembered his tears falling on the page and a sick part of me wanted to see the smudged writing. We agreed and signed, and I signed my own name, and then the judge said you are now legally separated, and I wish you the best of luck. And his eyes were on mine as he said that, and I got a feeling of his wishing me well, specifically me, and his understanding, in those eyes, of what I had escaped from, the sad stifled life. I felt he must see so many couples do what we did, and he must catch these glimpses. But his eyes sought me out, and I thought he recognised me and understood. And I felt the whoosh of freedom, and my mouth stretched out into a grin, and I begged myself to stop grinning, to switch it off, go back to the sombre divorce face, it was so rude, so cruel to grin, god, no, and Dick there looking sad and lost. I couldn’t stop smiling so I smirked, but that was awful too, so I strained and strained and covered my face with a hand and scratched my nose, desperately. But the smile leaked out anyway and I was just grateful my body didn’t break out into a dance, or leap into the air, because it felt like it might have.

Oh, to be truly free. October, October. How long will it take and how much will it cost, to get there?

To finally leave him behind, Dick, his name, his face, his part in my life.

10 things I hate about dickhead features! A list-based moving on session.

I feeeeeel good.

I feel happy.

Guess who helped me feel better?

My mother.

I called her earlier teary and full of mucus and she offered to come see me and that was what I wanted. I said please bring tobacco because… and I didn’t tell her this… I had been smoking butts of cigarettes that were in my ashtray and it was horrible and then I smoked all the butts and I had none left and that was a full ashtray.

She took her sweet time, she did, but she came with houmous and tomatoes and lettuce and a bunch of fresh wildflowers and a bottle of wine and just enough whiskey to make three hot whiskeys in a plastic bottle, and tobacco, and a bar of chocolate and oh my god I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Except maybe if she had brought my towels, I left them in her place when I went away because she was going to wash them not because I can’t wash my own towels but I didn’t want to leave damp towels in my bedsit for two weeks and come home to rotted smelly towels. But she forgot to wash them so I didn’t have any towels. I have been drying myself with my pyjama bottoms and my tablecloth for over a week now. Now that I think of it, I have only had two showers in that week. Mostly because of the lack of towels, but… hmm. Skankay. I really should have showered today but I was too depressed. Anyway I forgot all about the towels but the rest of the stuff was just what the doctor ordered. If I was the kind of timewasting individual like Sinead O Connor, who would take her heartache to a trained medical professional. Which I’m not.

But we talked. I told my story, we talked… we talked properly, for hours, without fighting… for the first time in a long long… long time. It was lovely. She felt for me, she was horrified at the sight of my swollen eyelids, I look WEIRD. I really do.. but she was helpful, I don’t even know what she said but talking and talking to someone with more experience, who knows me… it really helped.

I feel pretty good.

I attribute some of this to the wine.

Then rebound guy was online, actually this was before my mother showed up, and we had a nice chat. Good banter. I’m not going to lead him on but it just reminds me, I am not some discarded loser of a woman, I got suitors. I got people who want a piece o this… I am so much better than the blubbering ex of some immature guy whose main attractive feature is an instinct to hold a woman’s face when he kisses her and say pretty things.

OH YAY! Another breakthrough, I’m reducing him. This has been really tough because I kept coming back to no, he was still great… but I’m reducing him now. Booya. Progression along the stages, from self loathing to him loathing. The lesser evil.

Also I have wine, the wine is helping fo sho.

And I’m back in work tomorrow if my eyes manage to de-puff… wine probably not helping this. God I look insane with these eyes. They are super swollen. I’m not talking puffy, red, I’m talking looks like I got punched in the face, the old one two. Fucks like a butterfly, stings like a bee that you are allergic to.

Wow we really were made for each other… I’m a motherfucking poet too.

God I want to smack that boy. A woman scorned.. oh boy you don’t know what you are messing with. I will destroy you if you ever decide to come crawling back. I have done the revenge-get-back-together-with-just to screw-with-your-head before and I am not above doing it again. No that’s just bravado… it’s true but I was like 16… I am not going to do it again and I am probably not going to get the chance, but I’m proud of myself for being cheery enough to think of REWENGE.

He can suck on my hairy ballsack. I don’t have one but if I did it would be really hairy.

You know when I went over to see him in France he had shaved his pubes? He isn’t a very hairy guy, he’s kind of blonde.. so it was utterly pointless and sort of pathetic. Like it was just patchy and there were still hairs randomly. I didn’t know why he did it, but the friction after three days of constant bedroom shenanigans (not all of which occured in the bedroom) has left me still kind of raw.   It was such an unneccessary gesture.. I put it in the vault of things I will eventually remember when I don’t think he’s amazing any more. YAY!

Let’s open the vault.

Bear in mind this is the passtime of a loser, a rejectee in love. None of these things bothered me when we were together. but now, let us deconstruct the image of perfection I built to keep all the nagging thoughts and nagging friends at bay.

1. That Italian accent he thought was really funny to put on all the time. But I didn’t know it was supposed to be an Italian accent at first because it was awful and uncalled for. Seriously, it sucked major ballsack. And not in a good way. (I do it in a good way)

2. The stupid youtube video of two babies. I have always found it hideously offputting when a guy invites me to watch somethign “hilarious” on youtube. It’s supposed to be one of my dealbreakers, if it isn’t hilarious. This wasn’t hilarious. I forced a laugh, because I’m a weak willed man-pleasin’ biatch.

3. Minor bum acne. Nuff said.

4. He made a big effort to avoid things that were too cheesy. The sunset would have been too cheesy if it was perfect. Oh sorry, I forget that it’s important to be poetic at all times without actually hitting the cheesy note. That’s important.

5. He didn’t like my plastic wine glasses so we stole real wine glasses from a bar. I enjoyed the stealing aspect of this, but not so much the responsibility of having to keep wine glasses in my house that might break. I liked my plastic red ones. They were safe and practical and nice. Obviously not POETIC enough. But practical.

6. He didn’t know what he was doing in the oral department. I don’t mean to be crude (haha. lies.) but he belonged… belongs… to the school of cunning linguists who think the hanging rashers are an erogenous zone. No… no. No one wants their bacon bits nibbled at. I didn’t care because really it’s all about the penetray for may, but it’s still a legitimate a flaw. I gave him GREAT head. I wonder what rebound guy is doing?

7. He’s a hypocritical emotional fuckwit.

8. He lives with his parents.

9. Some of the music he listens to is really shit.

10. I’m clutching at straws here… oh wait, he’s 21 and thinks he knows about love and life and he doesn’t know shit. That’s one. There we go, 10 flaws.

OH!

11. He didn’t really read much. what is that, he loves poetic things but not reading? So then I get to feel like a dunce because he watches GOOD films, films about things… and all I like are romantic comedies and non romantic comedies but actually I read a fuck load of books so that’s just stupid, movies are my mindless escapism, I read books when I wanna think.

I’m feeling optimistic because this is the first time I mention any of these things. Because they interrupted my perfect man appreciation, but there they are. Not really very good flaws, nothing like ex husband’s, or anything. Ex husband could fill a page of detailed, mind blowing dealbreakers.

I am moving oooonnnn up!

And I’m moving to France! If I get into English teacher school. And then I’ll be all by myself again but it will be exciting and I will not be a hermit, I will go out and meet people and learn French and teach English and make friends and meet an older, more mature French man with a name like Jacques and he will bring me to his really fucking beautiful apartment full of art, and we will drink amazing wine but he won’t be pretentious about the glasses, but of course he will have nice glasses, and he’ll show me how to eat oysters but not act like it MEANS anything to know how to eat oysters or not, and we will lie in bed talking about books with our sweaty sex legs all tangled up in a white sheet, and he’ll notice tihngs about me that are flattering but also kind of make me sad, and lonely, and I’ll fall back into his arms and he’ll admire me and tell me… not ask me… that he is taking me somewhere on Saturday, and to wear something fancy, and we’ll make love and fall apart and come together and fall apart and eventually there will be croque monsieurs that he will make appear out of thin air, when I think he’s going to the bathroom, and he won’t care about all the crumbs I get in the bed and he’ll tell me I’m wonderful and his bathroom will be so far from his bedroom and the windows so big, there will never be any need for me to hold it in again and get all bloated, and I’ll leave before he could ever imagine wanting me to leave, and he’ll lie looking at me getting dressed and grinning at his good luck at finding such an awesome lover and then he’ll send me something to my house, flowers, a note, something…

Yeah I believe I’m actually pretty good now, I’m just hopelessly in love with the idea of being in love.

I want a big romantic sexy story. I want it better than Antoine, I want it so much better. I think I’m good though.

I just want more of what I had with him, more but BETTER. For grown ups. YES I WANT ROMANCE.

I am feeling damn good. Fuck Antoine, just wait until I meet Jacques the art dealer with his cellar full of wines and trouser full of snake. He’s going to make me feel aaaalllll riiiiiight.

I’m sorry for all this I subject you too. I am a rollercoaster woman. This is what most pissed me off about my argument with assholefeatures. Because he thinks I’m soooo in love with him, crazy in love. NO! I’m just a hyper emotional, possibly bipolar type of person. I don’t mean to bandy around terms like bipolar when I don’t understand it but whatever it is, I’m so fine I don’t even care any more, he’s a jerk. Also I have wine! Wine is fine.

I might see if rebound guy is online and use him for banter and to pad my self esteem a little bit.

Blerg…

Yay me! Did a little cleaning today. I snuck up on myself, didn’t let on I was about to start sweeping until BAM! broom in the hand, what am I doing? Sweeping. And I considered stopping sweeping but really, it wasn’t that bad. So there, finally found a way (this once, anyway) to make myself do unpleasant shit. Just start doing it, don’t even give yourself (myself) time to weasel out of it… or I would never have begun. Apartment was a disgusting mess, stepping barefoot around the filthy floor was like walking on gravel. Seriously, gross. I have been telling my sisters I’ll make them proper pancakes for ages, by now they have realised there are no pancakes. Their older sister is crap. But I do want to make them pancakes, I kick ass at pancakes. I kick pancake ass. So had to start tackling the mess, so I can invite actual human beings, even ones who love me unconditionally, into my home. And I’m nearly…. nearly there. We’re not quite ready for food preparation, it’s still pretty unhygienic and nasty, but I’ve made some headway. Scraped the debris of my everyday messy life to one side and shovelled it up. I don’t know where all this grey crap comes from. But it’s done now, the floor has been swept. I’m proud.

It sort of progressed naturally after I began throwing away random husband belongings. Shit he won’t miss, even if he does come back. An odd shoelace that has been roaming the apartment wistfully since before we split up. I always pick it up, put it somewhere safe, and forget all about it. It may be that I’m just constantly rehoming both laces, separately, but this time it surfaced and I decided “screw you, blue shoelace, this has gone on long enough.” And I threw him in the bin. Him? It. I threw it in the bin. It’s a shoelace, not my husband… anyway the satisfying removal of his odds and ends from MY apartment began after I came across some dubious exchange on facebook, between soon to be ex husband and “that girl I disliked when we were still together.” You know there’s always one, it’s an ex or a friend, someone HE gets along with but you don’t really see what’s so fun about her, and she’s not even that pretty or anything but still, the bitch-defenses kick in and you make sure she sees you bossing your man around and putting him down in front of people, and kissing him and making innuendos about some imaginary awesome sex life you have. And she knows what you’re doing. You’re saying, Go piss on another tree trunk, this one’s mine. And she hisses at you but your man never cops on that you are anything but the best of buddies.

So he was commenting something on her page that I didn’t understand, and she liked it, whatever it was, an in-joke or some sexual innuendo or just something boring but whatever it was, we’re split up now and it’s weird not knowing exactly what’s going on with your ex-other half. Actually I think he was more of a quarter, and I was like 3 quarters. I am in most of my relationships. My ego takes up space, and I don’t compromise well. Anyhoo, then there was a message he sent her saying “I miss you so so much, girl!” or an equivalent phrase in spanish. So I’m like, dang. They’re screwing. Now he’s across the ocean in his stupid home country but he’s coming back in October. I don’t honestly care if he’s fucking that bitch, she’s not prettier than me- she’s skinnier and more tanned, but I don’t care about that so much. I win anyway, because 1) I cheated repeatedly on husband. 2) I gave him so much shit about ever having had a mildly flirtatious email with an ex, while I cheated on him repeatedly 3) He never suspected anything 4) I’m skinnier now than when we were together, 5) I dumped him.

So I win. But still, it makes me feel shitty (I won’t say sad, I feel shitty) that he’s seeing this vile wench now, or has something going on with her anyway… because… it’s like he has a cool rebound going on, and I just rebounded onto an old best friend’s cock, and ruined shit. And then went back to my friendless dejected life with my buddy the laptop. And I was kind of wanting him to hate me and move on, so I could feel less like a heartless bitch about breaking up with him for reasons of “I want more cock” and “You’re starting to piss me off” which obviously I didn’t tell him. I told him we were growing apart, I didn’t feel ready for responsibility, we have trouble communicating. True too, but… I wanted more cock and he was pissing me off with his…personality. Anyway I felt like a bitch wrecking what he seemed to think was awesome blissful married life, so I was hoping he’d move on and find some stupid wench to be amused at his repetition of anecdotes from 6 years ago. But now that he seems to have done just that… and with a woman I know, and never liked cause she gave him the eye… and I told him that, I was like “dude, that bitch was looking at you, I’ll cut her, and I’ll cut you, understood?” and he probably laughed at that because I was still in the pre-buying, talking about my future swiss army knife period.  So I feel like in his mind, he might feel like he’s got one over on me. It makes me sorta kinda want to smack him back with a, yeah well I cheated on you LOADS. But obviously I won’t do that.

Anyway I feel pretty shitty indeed. It’s like my first bike. Well, tricycle. This is why I never learnt to ride a bike until last year, by the way. My mum got me a tricycle for christmas and it was plastic and has a horse’s head. I loved it. It was my best friend (now I have a laptop) and I used to talk to it, walking around wheeling it with my arm around its neck. My mum said I used to whisper to it and stroke its mane. But I wouldn’t ride it. I think I anthropomorphised it too much, I didn’t want to hurt my horse. Except, sometimes other children would come to play (rarely….so little has changed) and they would get on my trike and ride around. And I would scream and wail and partly I wanted to protect my horse from being abused by mean other children, partly I couldn’t bear that anyone else was using something of mine even if I had left it aside. So I would cry or scream or be a bitch until I got my horse back, and then even though I didn’t want to ride it around, I would cycle it around manicaly so no one else could. Until my mother made me share, or something.

Anyway, I don’t want husband back and I’m not going to ride him just to keep that harpy’s paws off him, but I still feel the mild indignant pain of having one of my possessions used by someone else. It’ll pass- I aint that cut up about it. But it feels weird, you know? We did have a really awesome and sweet relationship for a lot of the time. I wouldn’t have gotten married if it wasn’t special. It’s tough though. It’s a lot easier to break up with someone and then when the dust settles, the clarity and distance from emotion tells you “well that was a fucking good decision, look how much of a dick he was… I don’t know what I saw in him,” and to be honest, yeah, he has turned out to be a total dick in a lot of ways. But he was my total dick! He was mine, I beat him down from an unattainable man who didn’t care about me to a docile pet who was sweet and nice and loving and who tolerated me until I dumped him. And now what, he’s on the rebound? I’m happy for him, except he owes me money. And how dare he get a rebound when I don’t have one. Anyway. I realise you may want to get off the crazy train at this point, so here we go, I’ll stop. You can get off now- I’ll keep on going, you can count on that.

And I’m gonna keep throwing out his useless crap that’s lying around. It’s terribly satisfying.

3 Little bits of advice on relationships from a slightly jaded young soon to be ex wife

Yo peeps, I’m about to lay down some serious advice nuggets for y’all. The fact that you are even reading this makes me think, it’s probably not for you… right now. If I had someone to bang, you could probably switch off my modem and I wouldn’t even notice. No that’s a huge overexaggeration, don’t ever switch off my modem. You don’t want to be the phone company guy when I got that nasty call about not paying my bills. TAKE AWAY MY INTERNET? You may as well cut off my FACE. Or better yet, do neither. I paid my bill anyway so I win that round.Ok without further ado, here are my latest thought-morsels for those of you lucky enough to have some piece of ass currently tollerating your halitosis and night farts.

1. Pretend to not be something you are, but don’t pretend to be something you’re not.

Hide your real personality, by all means bury that nasty psychotic mess deep as you can. Don’t let a new romantic interest see that you’re really as fucked up as they are. You’d run a mile, too (if you weren’t so damned lazy… but don’t tell them about that either)

But don’t fake something that isn’t there. You don’t want some shiny new person you’re attracted to to know you like to act out rape scenarios. That shit will seem less weird once you get to know each other. It’ll probably be cool, once you leave it til it doesn’t seem like you just roll out the fucked up carpet for every one night stand. Maybe. But you shouldn’t lie about shit like, say, loving anal. Or being into threesomes. Because whatever you say you like now, is going to stick. There’s no backing out of that shit later. You can add flaws to the nice polished image you constructed when you first met, but damn it you can’t take away anything positive. That just doesn’t go down well.

2. Pay close attention to their life story now, because they’ll never be this honest with you again.

When you first meet someone, it’s all about selling yourself as a well-rounded person of the world. You become tempted to give a back story, to talk about best times and worst times, and you don’t edit your past partners out of your anecdotes because you don’t have to. The person you’re talking to doesn’t give a crap yet, and probably isn’t really paying attention to the details. If you’re a ridiculous drunken flirt, you’ll probably end up giving juicy glimpses of your sexual history. You might compare “weirdest places you’ve fucked” or tales of heartbreak, depending on how drunk you are. Pay attention now. They’ll tell you all about that big important ex you will forever be jealous and suspicious of once you get together seriously, and there will be no way of pumping your lover for information. The vault is open right now, now that neither of you really give a crap about each other. Take notes. Remember names. These names and events will be very useful to you later when you want to fly into a rage because they met up with this person and you KNOW there’s something there but have only a vague recollection of some drunken conversation you shared ages ago and the details elude you because you were just waiting for your turn to talk about yourself, you egomaniacal jerk.

2. part B.

Don’t share so much. Just cause you’re a jerk, doesn’t mean they aren’t collecting dirt on you and your past. Don’t give out names of people you still have chemistry with, you’ll never be able to cheat with them without suspicion. Well, that is if your future partner is paying attention, which they probably aren’t, because let’s face it, you like an arrogant dick, don’t you?

3. Don’t get married.

Just don’t. Unless YOU will get a green card out of it, or you have kids with this person, there is NOT a good enough reason to tie yourself legaly to someone.

Because you’re in love? Puh leaze. Love is as bad a state for signing contracts as drunkeness, or drug intoxication, but after it subsides you can’t go get the papers ripped up because you weren’t in a fit mental state. Love is more powerfull and more crazy-making than alcohol, by a long shot, but in the eyes of the law, it’s the perfect time to sign over your entire life. Have fun, kids. But don’t put a ring on it. And don’t ever think you’ll be the exception to the rule, because you’re not, and if you are, why the fuck do you need to get married anyway? And if you have a friend who wants to get married and you think it’s stupid, TELL THEM. Find a good way to tell them, but don’t be a pussy. If you can’t tell your friend when they’re making a massive mistake with their life without them hating you for it, you’re not friends. And  you don’t want to be friends with this moron anyway, trust me I was married (still am, technically) and I became BORING. True story. I had to break up with the guy to go back to my natural state of awesomeness. Right now I have no fucking friends and no social life and I am still 5000% more interesting and fun to be with than when I was married and had nights out with our group of friends and someone to talk to in the evenings. The only person  I would ever marry again is my self, if I met myself and we hit it off (I don’t know if I’d like me, really) and if my other me was a man with a nice cock. I’d marry that in a heartbeat. Oh I would be so into myself. Imagine, me with a dick… I would never need to leave the house again.

The least-bad worst things about breaking up

I’m not going to get all feelings-y on you now, so don’t worry. That’s just not how I roll. But I was thinking about the lighter side, the little details I never thought about before. I don’t want you thinking I’m a callous bitch either, just, you know, I’m thinking about this stuff.  Anyway it’s a list, everyone likes lists!

1. My longest ever relationship, and I neglected to absorb any of the man-skills my partner has. He can do all sorts of man things, and it never occurred to me to take notes as he changed fuses (I don’t even know if that’s a thing), drilled things into things, made holes in walls and completed other tasks I’ll never learn. I’ll have to pay someone to do this stuff from now on, and I could have just pretended to be interested. Then I’d have a great set of useful skills and I’d be able to say things like “my first husband taught me to rewire a socket” (again, don’t know if that’s a thing)

2. The mark on the wall needs to be painted over. The kitchen blind needs to be replaced. The bathroom ceiling has cracking paint. I now realise these problems will never be resolved.

3. Can’t be so hostile towards men any more. I’ll have to start listening to their moronic come ons and not just tearing them to pieces when they try to talk to me. I’ll have to deal with waking up with someone way less attractive than my standards, and realising I didn’t give them a fake name, and they know where I work.

4. I can’t open olive jars. A friend told me she bought a utensil that does this for her, some sort of gripping device to put on the lid… but the idea of going looking for one and buying it and having it in my house… is depressing.

5. I’ll have to make an effort again, and every day, because the fish in the sea haven’t seen my morning face yet and so can (and must!) still be tricked with makeup.

6. The piercing ring of silence in the apartment. Leads to microwavable ready meals for one, eaten out of the packet, and pathetic and unsatisfactory masturbation. It also leads to keeping the volume on tv really low because anything loud seems wrong.

7. Will have to learn to perform the heimlich maneuver on myself in case I choke while eating ready meals alone. To be honest I wouldn’t ever eat ready meals, my idea of a ready meal is buying pesto in a jar. I could still choke though.

8. I’ll have to completely rethink how much rice to cook, something I had only just got right. It was always way too much or way too little- now I have to start all over again.

9. Back to pretending I don’t fart.

10. I’ll have to bring the bins out from now on (that was his contribution to domestic life)

Jeez, how gloomy it all looks..