Monday, August 24, 2009

What happens when you purge your long-term boyfriend. -- by Mia Timpano.

I posted a link to this article a while back, but I'm not sure if enough people clicked the link and read it. I think it's wonderful and therefore am now forcing you all to read it.

What happens when you purge your long-term boyfriend.
By Mia Timpano. (column: Frankie #16 Apr/May 2007)

T-Bone and I broke up. Now all I have is crap in a box.

Actually, no, scratch that. That’s not all I have. I now have a world of morons dribbling their greeting card wisdom all over me. “Don’t worry! The right guy is out there for you, somewhere!” Somewhere? Wow. What a prediction. No, seriously, barf me another cliché — barf me a river — because that is exactly what I want to hear.

The sweet world of love in which I once laughed and frolicked has been blown up and pissed on all at once, and now I have to listen to shit you’ve read on bumper stickers.

A long-term relationship is not Chernobyl, inasmuch as it goes boom. A long-term relationship is that fake gelatine hand people buy from that store, World of Crap or whatever, inasmuch as you can hurl it against a wall, it sticks for a period, but inevitably gathers crud. And though the hand is clearly rancid, it requires six months (minimum) for you to say, “Uh, why do I own a novelty gelatine hand? Why is this shit in my house?” and finally purge it.

Then, once effectively dislodged from the existing relationship, three distinct phases follow:

1. Crying over assorted bullshit.

2. Seducing a man you wouldn’t otherwise spew on.
Though some people manage to bypass this phase, most don’t. The emotional storm of shit is such that you crave the intimacy you suddenly lack and your perception of others is grossly distorted.

I, myself, bounded keenly into the arms of Benedict O’Fey (not his real name), my university lecturer. Clearly blinded by both my tears over T-Bone and the sun that Benedict had me believe was radiating out of his arse, I found myself unable to recognise certain obvious problems, e.g. the fact that Benedict annoyed me, the fact that he dressed like a Medieval retard, the fact that he was pretentious — even his dreams were pretentious (he claimed that he dreamed in black and white) — and the fact that he worshipped me spasmodically, as opposed to loving me sincerely (there is a difference). That, and the fact that he was borderline gross.

After months of to-ing and fro-ing and finally groping, I experienced a moment of total clarity; while locked in Benedict’s sweaty embrace, I ran my hand under his shirt in an effort to reach and hold the back of his neck, but found myself unable drive my fist through the valley of fat that surrounded it. My hand came to rest on a freak bulge of fat that was nestled between Benedict’s armpit and gut. And as I held it, and he held me, I realised, “Uh, why I am holding this man’s lump of fat?” and finally purged him.

3. Realising who you are and that you never actually needed a boyfriend in the first place.
I came to understand that, in many ways, T-Bone was to me now what my doll Tubby was to me as a child. I loved Tubby sincerely, so much so that when I failed to pack Tubby when travelling interstate, my bitching did not end. Ultimately, my parents had the doll couriered. My loss was real, yes, but I do not cling to Tubby now. And so, with a similar passage of time, I will move on from T-Bone.

And, certainly, I like to believe that I have already. But then, when I think of T-Bone, dressed as a pretzel (T-Bone works at a Pretzel World franchise, where he dresses as a giant pretzel, handing samples to lard arses), I feel the goo of my heart, much as I did the day I met him, in the studio audience of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? , much as I did the day he told me, “You’re achingly beautiful,” and kissed me, much as I did every night we sat in bed watching Star Trek TNG . Because I miss him. Because the last time I saw him, “as friends” or whatever, he broke off mid-sentence, looked away and said, “I’m still madly in love with you.”

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