Even if I were bipolar nymphomaniac with cheeks brimming to the gills with viagra I would never expect the words above. But there you have it, myself and my manfriend have finally had our first definitive Oliver Reed argument. One of those beautiful blazing brannigans, normally sparked by someone cracking their knuckles or 'doing that baby voice again'. The catalyst is usually irrelevant but a hefty portion of spirits are sure to keep it a float. For most men, this is usually one of the Pop-Eye bicep bulging spirits like Grouse, Tequila, Black rum. But my lovely lean man has more in common with a 50 year old woman crying masacra tears onto her pink pant suit than Sir Chuck Norris. His cascade into beligerant bastardville was fuelled by a mouth monsoon of gin. At least thats what I am telling myself. After all, I am a lady, I am infallable.
There we were, skipping down our crisp-bag clad road all ready and heady with love. He grabs me by the hand and makes me sprint towards our house and I follow, tongue wagging like an un-neutered dog. But the meek little lady I am, I stopped to force my red-flushed face against a cold stone wall. Mmmm cold concrete against a hot drunk face, heals all wounds doesn't it? Apparently my idiosyncracies weren't as adorable as I had hoped. Within in minutes of my maudling stalling he'd evolved into a some deranged Hulk-Ramsey hybrid. Using words that would turn the virgin mary spastic I might add!The rest of the evening streched out to infinity with pointless exchanges like,
"Why are you angry?"
"Because you never take responsibility for anything!"
"Responsiblity for what exactly?"
"You're doing it again all high and mighty.........aaaahh grumble grumble rant rant."
But I don't blame him, I don't even blame the gin-scapade. The real enemy here is life's mild inconveniences. For all sad sacks with no real problems, like childhood abandonment or Herpes (so much artistic fuel-lucky fucks) we let mild inconveniences build int a subconcious Vesuvius. Sometimes, we need a little liquor shower to vent the indignation we have about how annoying and inane life can be. So the other night, I was quite happy to be my manfriends vulnrable venoum canvas. I was the sand between his toes, the second story on his house of cards, his puddle drenched shoelace, his pavement dance with a stanger. And even though our pillows have little beige stains were my make up mixed with tears, he is officially forgiven. I understand.
But next time he gets a static shock from his jumper or a vending machine eats his coins, I recommend the following alternatives to berating his loved ones:
-Shove fellow commuters harder than necessary and get a few foot stamps in while your at it.
-Tell small children there is no Santa and/or God.
-Spill drinks on bus seats so people will assume they have sat it piss.
Despite all the above, I firmly believe that forgiveness and revenge are bedfellows so for all that don't know, the pale hoodie-wearing Elephant Man in the photo is my boyfriend.
Enjoy.
I recommend angry cleaning
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