Well, that's a new one.
I've been around, yaknow? I've seen many of the myriad ways in which a relationship can go boom, and have personally borne witness to more explosions than Doctor Robert Oppenheimer.
But I hadn't yet seen the method commonly known as 'turn your phone off, completely drop off radar for no apparent reason, not actually tell the other person the relationship ist kaput, and do more screwing around than an entire colony of particularly sex-crazed rabbits. On pills. In the 60s.'.
That lack is now rectified. Yay.
I'd figured out for myself that the relationship was dead - the student parade of Hope had met the tank convoy of Reality during the two and a half weeks of no contact, with predictable results -- but the final reversing over of a last defiant protestor was delivered by a friend of mine texting to let me know they'd seen her in flagrante delicto. (the heads-up is appreciated, by the way. Doing it in front of my friends.. now that's style.) I mean, damn, putting the pieces together, in the last two weeks the girl's got herself a higher sperm count than me.
Realising that everything someone told you for a year was a lie (instead of the conclusion I'd previously come to, which was merely 'most of it was') is quite an interesting experience in a 'fuck me, this bottle of whiskey was full an hour ago' sort of way, as is the sudden understanding that I've been swallowing more shit than the entire German scheisse porn industry. In short, I have been crapped on both metaphorically and literally (will trade anecdote for beer) by this jiggling mass of human arse-gravy of the very worst sort.
I appreciate that a lot of ya are only getting one side of this story, and will be inclined to make overly-charitable judgements about the girl such as, 'Well, maybe arse-gravy's a little harsh. She seems more like loose stool-water to me,' but... really, no. I dated an uruk-hai in a PVC miniskirt, lacking only the orc's social graces, conversational ability, desire to bathe, and intellect. Were her brains to be smeared across a wall, I'd considered trying to claim it as a Jackson Pollock until I remembered that he never worked in the medium of postcards.
As for why the hell I tried to make it work again? I mean, she'd only cheated on me, betrayed me, tried to convince me one of my best friends was fucking her behind my back, fucked her way through a significant proportion of my friends as soon as she'd finished with me then boasted about it to me, lied about me, and insulted me to others (though not so well as this, obviously).
Well, you know the saying 'as a dog returneth to his vomit, so too does a fool returneth to his folly'? In this case the dog vomit and the object of my folly were indistinguishable in personality, charming temperaments, and smell, so she'd got me coming and going. It also explains why my dog kept sniffing her, quite apart from the fact it'd never smelled anything like her outside of another dog's bottom. And love is blind, I guess. And apparently lacking in a sense of smell.
And surprisingly willing to be understanding when pooed on.
So much for love.
In summary: ... ow.
Fucking ow.
Coincidentally, that's why I wasn't being sociable this evening. I'd asked people to keep an eye out and let me know, and this was what I expected to hear. My apologies for being an antisocial bastard, but I feel I had my reasons, that being I would've done to the party what it normally takes quite a lot of treacle to do to a precision watch.
I leave you with two quotes from the immortal W.C. Fields, a man after my own heart. Anyone who, when tourists tried to peer through the windows of his house, had a habit of hiding in bushes and shooting at their legs with an air rifle is quite clearly deserving of respect. (Oh yes, and please notice the userpic. It is indeed the world's smallest violin, and it is playing a sad little concerto just for me.)
I was in love once, my dear. She drove me to drink. That's the one thing I'm indebted to her for.
If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it.
But I hadn't yet seen the method commonly known as 'turn your phone off, completely drop off radar for no apparent reason, not actually tell the other person the relationship ist kaput, and do more screwing around than an entire colony of particularly sex-crazed rabbits. On pills. In the 60s.'.
That lack is now rectified. Yay.
I'd figured out for myself that the relationship was dead - the student parade of Hope had met the tank convoy of Reality during the two and a half weeks of no contact, with predictable results -- but the final reversing over of a last defiant protestor was delivered by a friend of mine texting to let me know they'd seen her in flagrante delicto. (the heads-up is appreciated, by the way. Doing it in front of my friends.. now that's style.) I mean, damn, putting the pieces together, in the last two weeks the girl's got herself a higher sperm count than me.
Realising that everything someone told you for a year was a lie (instead of the conclusion I'd previously come to, which was merely 'most of it was') is quite an interesting experience in a 'fuck me, this bottle of whiskey was full an hour ago' sort of way, as is the sudden understanding that I've been swallowing more shit than the entire German scheisse porn industry. In short, I have been crapped on both metaphorically and literally (will trade anecdote for beer) by this jiggling mass of human arse-gravy of the very worst sort.
I appreciate that a lot of ya are only getting one side of this story, and will be inclined to make overly-charitable judgements about the girl such as, 'Well, maybe arse-gravy's a little harsh. She seems more like loose stool-water to me,' but... really, no. I dated an uruk-hai in a PVC miniskirt, lacking only the orc's social graces, conversational ability, desire to bathe, and intellect. Were her brains to be smeared across a wall, I'd considered trying to claim it as a Jackson Pollock until I remembered that he never worked in the medium of postcards.
As for why the hell I tried to make it work again? I mean, she'd only cheated on me, betrayed me, tried to convince me one of my best friends was fucking her behind my back, fucked her way through a significant proportion of my friends as soon as she'd finished with me then boasted about it to me, lied about me, and insulted me to others (though not so well as this, obviously).
Well, you know the saying 'as a dog returneth to his vomit, so too does a fool returneth to his folly'? In this case the dog vomit and the object of my folly were indistinguishable in personality, charming temperaments, and smell, so she'd got me coming and going. It also explains why my dog kept sniffing her, quite apart from the fact it'd never smelled anything like her outside of another dog's bottom. And love is blind, I guess. And apparently lacking in a sense of smell.
And surprisingly willing to be understanding when pooed on.
So much for love.
In summary: ... ow.
Fucking ow.
Coincidentally, that's why I wasn't being sociable this evening. I'd asked people to keep an eye out and let me know, and this was what I expected to hear. My apologies for being an antisocial bastard, but I feel I had my reasons, that being I would've done to the party what it normally takes quite a lot of treacle to do to a precision watch.
I leave you with two quotes from the immortal W.C. Fields, a man after my own heart. Anyone who, when tourists tried to peer through the windows of his house, had a habit of hiding in bushes and shooting at their legs with an air rifle is quite clearly deserving of respect. (Oh yes, and please notice the userpic. It is indeed the world's smallest violin, and it is playing a sad little concerto just for me.)
I was in love once, my dear. She drove me to drink. That's the one thing I'm indebted to her for.
If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it.