At least I have never

The home of schadenfreude, where you can take comfort in the fact that no matter what your most hideously embarrassing moment was, there is always something worse that has happened to someone else and you can rest safe in the knowledge that at least you have never done that.

Monday, November 13, 2006

at least I have never... been a psycho girlfriend

At least I have never gone out with a boy and proceeded to mess with his head in every way known to man, including:
- being absolutely vile to his two female flatmates from the moment they were introduced to me and accusing him of having household threesomes at every opportunity
- having one pregnancy scare and one STD scare (both completely fictitious) in the first three months of the relationship
- smashing my boyfriend's flatmate's cafetiere and laughing when it was suggested that it be replaced
- breaking my boyfriend's flat powershower by not being quite as thin and agile as believed by self
- applying for boyfriend's flatmate's exec PR job when it was re-advertised after becoming a permanent post. Then posting said flatmate a job application form for the position of part-time cleaner in local hospital, with a note advising that, as I am obvously going to steal the PR job, she may as well have a go at applying for this one instead
- going through my boyfriend's email distribution list, picking out the name of his ex-girlfriend and sending her an email crowing about how brilliant our new relationship is. Then asking whether there is any way me and the ex can work together professionally.
- turning up on the doorstep at 2am after being dumped and refusing to go home.

Thank God she didn't last.

posted by zuzula @ 4:08 AM  

5 Comments:

  • At 4:39 AM, Blogger zuzula said…

    they do say love is blind ;)

     

  • At 11:03 AM, Blogger zuzula said…

    she really was something else. and guess who the long suffering flatmate was?

     

  • At 11:03 AM, Blogger zuzula said…

    This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

     

  • At 1:46 PM, Blogger She de la Handbag said…

    Amen;)

    She was a real corker! I believe there was a rumour that she had a shotgun wedding with a man from an extremist Christian cult ...

     

  • At 9:31 PM, Blogger shitfaced said…

    Shotgun weddings of extremist Christians? Nicole and Keith had one in Sydney earlier this year. I think I know who you are writing about...

    At least I have never woken up in my bed, not understanding why I'm there. To find out the day (and year), I have to turn on the tv. What happened last night? Why am I at home? Where is my mobile phone? Is anybody else in my apartment? No.

    I look in my wallet; I seem to have donated all my cash to charity, or eaten it, or possibly put it in the bin. [I have once also walked away from an ATM BEFORE the money came out, to realise ten minutes later said fact, and returning to the ATM in vain. Sadly, I was sober at the time.] I remember leaving a bar with a group of friends, to go to a Drag Queen's home; always a questionable choice yet an exciting prospect. That is all I remember. Oh, and I pashed someone from work for an hour. Or three. I really don't know.

    Some hours later, a flashback. I can remember sitting next to someone, trying to say where I live. I can't say it. My lips are stuck together, my tongue paralysed. I'm in a taxi! That's how I got home. This doesn't explain the missing money, unless the driver took advantage and tipped himself. In Sydney, a real possibility.

    It is now the next evening. I decide to return to the bar where I'd spent the previous night, in the hope of finding the very pashable workmate. I do find him. He's pashing his now ex-ex, whom he'd broken up with two days earlier. A polite hello, too embarrassed to enquire about the night before. I quickly ask, 'Do you think Drag Queen would be at home, I think my phone is at his place?' He thinks so, I head off.

    The Queen lives a fair walk away; the walk dislodges whatever's blocking my brain: an epiphany! Or a fuzzy vision at least. Blood on pale carpet, screaming, swearing. My foot. In a stiletto. My voice: 'I'm so sorry. It's ok though, my Father is a millionaire, he can pay for whatever surgery you need. Do you want me to call him now?' Drag Queen's voice: Swearing. [I don't dare guess at the kind of relationship I would have with Father now, had the answer been yes.] I do remember now. I'd asked to try on a pair of the Drag Queen's stilettos, I started dancing, I stopped distinguishing between the pale carpet and the Drag Queen while dancing.

    I stop walking. I really, really need my phone. What will wait for me at the Queen's home? How bad is his foot? Has he used my phone to ring Father? How bad is the carpet? Will he open the door for me? How much money will he ask for? I have none, but at least I now have one possible explanation for this.

    I ring the door bell. I hear shuffling. The Queen opens the door. He's not on crutches! I force a smile, of sorts: 'Hello?'. He smiles back! I apologise every eight seconds or so whilst getting my phone. I make oblique enquiries about the missing money. I carefully avoid any mention of Father, and keep my eyes off the carpet. 'You bought the pills, remember?' Well, I do now, kind of. I bought some pills (two? three?), gave at least one to the very pashable workmate, and swallowed one, and then proceeded to smash the Queen's foot with his shoe in my foot. Money well spent all around.

    After smashing it, my concern for the Queen's foot doesn't last long, apparently, as I pass out on the couch. The party order me a cab - who knows how they get me in it. The picture is now, well, not complete (how did I get from cab to bed? how did I unlock the front door? am I sure nobody has used my phone to ring Father? thank christ for Call
    Register) but the gist of the overall turn of events is clearer. Lessons learned from this? None. At least I have ever only smashed a drag queen's foot once.

    Postscript: Some time later I had another flashback, of self vomiting PRIOR to hours of pashing with workmate. I sort of felt vindicated, if also less surprised at workmate's quick return to ex.

     

Post a Comment

<< Home