So I was thinking about past relationships, and in general how societies nutters tend to gravitate towards me. As my mum says I “just have one of those faces”, when I remembered a few arguments I had while In the doomed relationships.
My ex girlfriend Rebecca could not, and will never be able to cook. She was capable of the process of cooking (sort of) but cannot cook in the same way that an octopus cannot ride a bike; it has enough arms to reach the pedals and handlebars but the result will rarely be a successful journey from A to B. She was also a vegetarian. You have to be careful what you say these days, apparently you’re not allowed to call a certain group of people queers anymore. You have to call them . I don’t have anything against , but the way I see it, our food shits and pisses on there’s.
I once looked over Rebeccas shoulder to discover her crumbling Alka-Seltzer tablets, or the cheaper supermarket alternative, into a meal she was preparing because “they are salty and we ran out of salt.”
“The nachos were a bit runny so I added a few cups of water. It’s nacho soup,”
“Is there even such a thing?” I asked. “And what are these bits in it?”
“They’re the crisps,” Rebecca replied defensively as she sipped a spoon of Nachos and made a long “mmmmmm” noise. “I put it all in the blender so there shouldn’t be any big bits.”
“I’m ringing for pizza,” I said.
“That’s not true” I responded, “I appreciate everything you do but if I ordered a hamburger at McDonald’s and they handed it to me in a cup with a straw saying ‘Sorry, it was a bit runny so we threw it in the blender and added two cups of water, it’s Big Mac soup’, I would assume the restaurant was entirely staffed through some kind of special needs employment initiative. If they asked me, “Do you want fries with that?” I sure as fuck wouldn’t reply, ‘Yes, mix them in.'”
“It would probably be quite good,” “but you would never know because you are too much of an asshole to taste it. Even if the guy at McDonalds spent an hour in the kitchen making it for you and burnt his thumb on a saucepan.”
While I was on the phone to my mother, as it was Mother’s Day, my mum jokingly, knowing full well what I am like asked if Rebecca found me annoying or amusing. Of course I said she found me a total hoot, Rebecca yelled from the kitchen clearly audible to my mum and no doubt half the street, “Don’t fucking lie.” My mum asked me “Was that Rebecca?” to which I replied, “No, it was the television” and Rebecca yelled out again “No it wasn’t.” On one occasion, I decided we should call in sick, so that we could spend the whole day in bed together, On Monday morning, as I was about to call my boss, using my best sick voice to explain how I could possible of attracted Ebola, Rebecca was watching a program called Breaking Bad in bed while I was making the call in the next room. Not realising I was on the phone to my hard asse boss, she yelled “We should build a Meth-lab in the garage.”
I came over to visit Rebecca after work one Tuesday, to discover a framed photo of our dog on our living room wall. I like our dog but when I am home, so is the dog. I don’t need to see photos of it. Especially if the photo shows the dog sitting on the couch that is immediately below the framed photo and the dog is actually sitting on that couch at the time.
Sitting down next to the dog, I grabbed a magazine from the table and flicked through until I came to an interview with tom cruise. The facing page featured a photo of Tom in a suit, sitting on a chair with one leg crossed over the other, holding a glass of red wine. Ripping out the page, I replaced the photo of the dog in the frame with it.
When I met
in a bar in Los Angeles, I asked him what annoyed him most about being famous.
“That’s easy,” he replied, “It’s all the libellous things that people write about me.”
And then he got down on his knees and sucked my cock.
Arriving home a short time later, it took Rebecca less than fifteen seconds to storm into the kitchen brandishing the frame and demanding, “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s Golden Globe award winning actor Tom cruise” I replied.
“Yes, I know who Tom cruise is, Where’s the dog?”
“It’s sitting on the couch,” I replied, “It’s always sitting on the couch. And having a photo above the couch of it doing so is weird. We may as well put a photo on the wall of all three of us sitting on the couch and then sit on the couch and look at it. Or put up a mirror.”
As she stormed back out in search of the missing photo, Rebecca said over her shoulder, “It’s not as weird as having a photo of Tom cruise on the wall.”
“I like Tom cruise,” I replied.
“Well I like the fucking dog,” Rebecca yelled back, “If you love Mr cruise so much why don’t you marry him instead. Then you can put up hundreds of photos of him.”
Which is a ridiculous statement because if I was married to Tom cruise and saw him everyday, I obviously wouldn’t need photos of him on the wall to look at. Also, if I was married to Tom cruise and we had a bare wall, we could probably afford a professional interior designer who knew what they were doing.