…you should know by now. Be careful what you put them through.
Another birthday, and I’d arranged to meet the special girl and some of her friends in a pub near her house before we headed to a bar. It had not been a good day. A member of my family had returned to the hospital to see if the NHS might have possibly fucked up with their now infamous virus diagnosis †, but he hadn’t wished for me to accompany him. Carry on, go out, don’t let down your friend was the verdict. We’ll let you know if there’s any news. So out I went, a shrinking feeling of fear gnawing away within. Bad plan.
My boyfriend was due to meet us all in Town. This, he let it be known, was a Special Event. He had finally decided to meet people I knew, and not just fuck me on the sly. Ostensibly this would’ve been a good thing except that the gathering rapidly descended into the sort of screeching hen party with a death-by-rosé-wish I’m not entirely ashamed to say I despise. And we were going to be very late to meet him. Very fucking late.
I’d been torn between obsessively checking the cam-phone for good news/bad news from the hospital and replying to irate man-messages, and just shoving the damn thing away whilst trying to bond with the girls. They were lovely enough, if you like high-pitched squeals and moronic chat about hair-straighteners. mmm. Favourite conversation alert!
Anyway. We finally arrived, and He. Was. Furious. He’d gone out of his way and I’d Let. Him. Down. IT WAS OVER. Leaving aside matters like ‘perhaps he shouldn’t have made such a big deal about COMING OUT as my boyfriend’ or ‘is lateness with mitigating circumstances really a justifiable reason to end a relationship?’, I accept that I was at fault. I should’ve been a fraction lot less drunk, clearer in my communication, and plenty more punctual. He must’ve felt like an utter prick waiting around for this chaotic, pissed bundle of plump legs and Essex hair to arrive. Which is convenient, since he WAS A FUCKING PRICK.
So yes. I was in the wrong. But how *fragile* do you have to be to let one instance, one incident, end it all? I think he felt slighted and needed to redress the balance by having me beg for another chance, which I duly did. Told you this one’d show me in a bad light. I FUCKING TOLD YOU.
† The ‘virus’ was a stroke, and brain damage. Well done NHS!
No sorry – this is not the ‘knickers’ fault – this is the trouser’s fault. He must have been brain damaged to agree to meet up with *anyone* after they were scheduled to be drinking elsewhere first – let alone a bunch of girls. He should *either* have arranged to meet at the first venue, or not bothered that night at all.
Can understand him being annoyed, but his reaction doesn’t suggest ‘fragility’ so much as ‘being a bit of a cunt’. You are the fragile one in this story camiknickers.
Jealous? Possessive? Looking for a convenient excuse to end the relationship without being at blame? Ego-ridden pot of toss, with a side order of taking-oneself-too-seriously?
Damn. Do you know him? Sounds like you do…
I think everyone knows him, don’t they? Or someone just like him. I was just posting a short autobiography, as it happens.
This is a throughly negative light is it? Jesus Christ Cami, compared to tales at the hands of the Trouser this is like telling off the Jews, cos one of them once gave a German a little bitchy slap.
Yes, I like hyperbole. What of it.
The definition of a fucktard cumweasel
Frightening that any man could demonstrate such a pea-sized brain. In this case the temporal lobe has obviously been hardwired to the ‘whinge like a bitch about punctuality’ cortex via a very short-fuse. I hope he’s not in charge of any nuclear weapons for North Korea. Fucktard Cumweasel it is then.