What happens when you purge your long-term boyfriend: part 2, back in the habit

I don’t want to get married. “Yes, you will — one day!” One day? Which day? No, please, specifically which day of my life do I wake up and — à propos of presumably fuck all — yearn to peel the socks from my husband’s rancid feet, crusted from his sweat, or wipe the stream of shit from a child’s arse, or run around a supermarket while children bash me in the face, or stab Lego bricks into my eyes, until I agree to buy Cheds?

Forget it. Clearly, I am wrong, I have no will whatsoever, and I don’t know what I think or believe. I acknowledge that I am likely to change my mind between now and, say, death; for years I planned to marry my boyfriend and, eventually, birth our suckling byproduct (Bowie Timpano). But then that particular worm turned, and those dreams, smidge by smidge, would wither, until, finally, there was nothing, but a soft kiss goodbye.

And, I don’t know, maybe I’m not shitting my pants in desperation to get back on that horse. Maybe I don’t want to be set up with your house mate, “Chunge”, the miniature Sri Lankan nut who wears a stuffed dog on his head. Maybe I’d like to aim a weenie bit higher than this mental man who lives in the hole under your stairs. “Chunge is a writer, you’re a writer — eh?” Well, ta for that spot of infallible logic, but given he wears a rancid stuffed dog, which he clearly fished from out of the bin, on his head, I can’t see “Chunge” writing anything other than mental scrawlings in his own shit.

And another thing: I know that (comparatively speaking) I’ve only been single for about five minutes, but why is every Johnny-come-lately now darting out of the woodwork, frothing at the gob to dish me out a button’s worth of his free “life advice”? One, you idiot, I didn’t ask. Two, how old are you again? 25? Oh, yes, I’m sorry, I forgot how 25-year-olds are mystical gurus who have all life’s answers in the palm of their fucking hands. Three, I’ve been through this.

Case in point: when I was 18, I entered into my first serious relationship with a certain professional wrestler (whose name cannot be revealed now or ever, pending him, shall we say, beating every conceivable turd out of me), who, at least for a bit, I was sincerely in love with. His wrestling character was, essentially, a sort of bog man (he was massive, had long hair, would smear his face and body with boot nugget, then dart around ringside like a whirling nut on a dog chain), and though after a year Bogs and I were more or less disintegrating, there was nothing that could possibly prepare me for what would follow.

To an extent, there was always an element of uncertainty in Bogs’, shall we say, brain (which I don’t mean as a dis; it’s just a fact). Bogs’ father clearly had more than a bean loose; when I met him, he was in his fifth or so year of “primal therapy”, which was being conducted by the original primal therapists in LA via webcam. From what I gathered from his endless idiotic ramblings, this entailed both parties in front of their webcams, with the therapist taking him back to his babyhood — not to simply recall that experience, but to actually re-live it, AS a baby — and he, accordingly, crawling around on all fours, dribbling, able to communicate only through a series of “goos” and “gahs”.

Anyway, blah blah, basically, long story short, this nut orchestrated an actual intervention. I wasn’t there (obviously) but from what I’ve been told, I understand they drove Bogs into a room, blocked all conceivable exits and screamed until he agreed to leave me. (Fact: they said I was a “sociopath”.)

Whatever. I tried.

See also: “What happens when you purge your long-term boyfriend: part one“

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