The End of the Affair

Today at work I went commando and then on my mid-morning bathroom break I put my heel through the bum of my pants (don't ask) and then a bit of my butt stuck out so I had to wear my (thankfully long) jacket for the rest of the day but luckily it was cold so no-one said anything. And that's probably enough about work.

On the subject of inappropriate exits, the gentleman currently holding the position of My Boyfriend (part-time, approx. 20h pw) has been let go on a few counts of serious misconduct.

Count 1: Not reading, or showing any interest in reading my blog. TFC appears to view my blog - yes, this one - as some sort of childish diversion (which is, incidentally, also how he views NetHack, adding yet another reason to the list of Reasons For Dumping) and, when I gave him the address in a moment of trust, declared that he "would rather find out about me by himself." (He said 'myself,' though, not 'himself.' I never know how quotes like that work.) This B-grade rom-com-worthy comment would have made me vomit if I wasn't drunk and already concentrating quite hard on not vomiting. "Your loss," I said, and he laughed facetiously, and I thought to myself, 'This is a dead duck.'

Count 2: Bitching about my physical imperfections, in particular the prominent oval scar on the back of my hand. The same evening as the Blog Denouement, he was holding and absentmidedly gazing at my hand (I was trying to watch a movie) then asked, "Where did you get that scar?" "Captured by pirates," I said. He laughed. "No, really, where did you get it?" "Tortured by the Russian mafia." I thought that by then I'd made it relatively obvious that the origins of said scar weren't up for discussion, but apparently I hadn't as he donned a sincere, tender sort of a look (eww) and said, "No, really, you can tell me, you know..." and trailed off into a puppy-dog sort of face. Except that puppy-dogs (why are they called puppy-dogs? It's completely redundant, as is 'kitty-cats.' At least we don't say 'baby-humans' - we do say 'little people' but I guess that's different) are cute and endearing and he was just irritating.

"I would tell you," I said in my vulnerable, little-girl voice, "but I just can't." Here I averted my eyes. "The first rule is that we're not allowed to talk about it." He harrumphed (sounded like a dog with wind) and said, "You should do something about it." "Nah," I said, "I've had it for ages, I kind of like it now. Besides, it lets me predict the weather." I was prepared to let the conversation rest, but apparently it was necessary to discuss Bio-Oil and how it could help to remove such disfiguring things as scars on hands. "I like it," I said stubbornly. "You shouldn't," he replied. At times like these, my grandparents always return from the afterlife (except for the one who isn't dead) and hover over my shoulder to offer advice. My maternal grandmother says something along the lines of, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." My maternal grandfather says something along the lines of, "Keep a civil tongue in your head." They are both, I am sorry to say, often ignored. My paternal grandmother is a bit more bolshie and would probably have told him to stick his Bio-Oil somewhere the makers never intended it to go (unless, of course, you have unsightly rectal scarring), and my paternal grandfather says, "Punch him in the nose!" (It is worth noting that my paternal grandfather died when I was very young so I have no idea what he would actually say, but in my mind he usually says, "Punch him in the nose!")

I did not punch him in the nose, but I also did not keep a civil tongue in my head, and now the romance (such as it was) is no longer.



Bear tattoo idea: gaining momentum.

EDIT: My computer broke halfway through this, so I posted it unedited, and I'm very sorry. Am now on someone else's comp with limited timespan, so will fix it later. Sorry!