Archive for Mob Wars

He’s called an ‘ex’ for a reason

Posted in Random Randoms with tags , , , , , , , , , on November 6, 2008 by starstripe
John really regretted buying too much of the teracotta paint for the lounge

John really regretted buying too much of the teracotta paint for the lounge

of course not, but spray painting the car definately was.

of course not, but spray painting the car definately was.

I really loathe some of my exes.

They are all fantastic guys (or I wouldn’t have dated them right?). But really, most of them need some therapy. Especially after dating me.

It’s strange; I have always been advised that after a break up, you should try and remain in good terms with an ex. Obviously one needs to allow a bit of healing time, but once the tendency to call them at 4am and cry down the phone asking them if they have slept with someone else yet has passed, it is best to let bygones be bygones.

My first real heart ache came at the age of 21 when my knight in shining armour dumped me and then proceeded to date my best friend a few weeks later.
They are now married.
And she is not my best friend anymore.

It took a week in a clinic, two months of illegal drug use, some varied promiscuous behaviour and a LOT of therapy to get the pain to go away. To tell you the truth, the moment when the pain left my stomach was when I went through the process of forgiving him and I realized that he was not a bad person at all and that I had also made some big mistakes in our relationship. Since then we have been on great terms. I was genuinely happy for him when he got hitched. That is, until a week ago when I discovered to my dismay, that the ultimate social rejection and public humiliation had been issued to me. He had deleted me as a friend on FaceBook.

Now a month ago, we were chatting happily, sending messages and keeping in contact. Ok,  he was on his honeymoon but still, there was nothing dodgy behind our communication so I was very perplexed as to why, with no reason or explanation, I had been dumped again, this time as a friend. I have my suspicions that a certain third party was involved in ‘persuading’ his finger to hit the ‘remove friend’ button, but as was explained to me by my very wise sister – I am not more important than his wife, so I decided to leave it there.

But some more perplexing behaviour on behalf of my exes recently has left me stumped.

Firstly, there is one ex whom I have not spoken to in five months. He is going on 26 and quite the charmer. A decent guy with many issues. But I made a decision five months ago that he was not really meant to be a part of my future (i.e. he got a new girlfriend, who to be honest is actually a very lovely girl) and moved on with my life, carrying a fat bag of resentments with me.

Anyone who knows me is very aware that mentioning the ‘S’ word will result in my rattling off about his behaviour until I look like I have just run 100 meters. In fact, when I heard that the day after he bought his new motorbike he had been run over and it had been written off, I was mildly pleased. Well, elated, but still, I have moved on.

Yet I accidentally forwarded him a chain email which prompted a nasty reply from him, then rounded off with the comment “I meant to tell you, you look really good”. Now if he had been nasty and just refrained from the latter comment, I would have been fine with pretending he did not exist, or at least simply mailing back some witty comments about how I hope his life as a waiter is fulfilling him as much as every other sixteen year old. But somehow the comment enraged me so much that what was one mistake email turned into a slinging match of gargantuan proportions. To me, the last word is worth DYING FOR.

Then to top it all off, today I was on a friend’s profile on FaceBook who is friends with him and up popped his photo. With him and his new girlfriend in a classic embrace that you see in many other teenage photo albums. Another good friend of mine was very cool about it, saying men with pictures of themselves and their other half as profile pictures are very lame, because men should be photographed doing something manly, like holding a fish. Thanks T  

Then my ex fiancé… yes, the one who I got engaged to after a rave and called my mother at 4am to tell her I was now someone’s fiancé, whilst not in any frame of mind to be making phone calls, let alone accepting marriage proposals.

I got into a slinging match with this one too. Granted, I cheated on him and then broke up with him to run off with the other guy, who dumped me three months later, only for me to run back to the ex, and repeat, plus running off with yet another guy. So for the past four years I have been trying to make this up to him. I call him once a month and he tells me what a sad life I have in a very manipulatively sweet way. But yesterday, I deleted him as friend on FaceBook. I figure that after four years of putting up with his nastiness (and two years of it when we were dating), I have paid my dues and can go back to hating him.

I was upset with him for teasing me about Mob Wars – a game I feel very seriously about. He  wrote, on my wall (in caps lock too, so it looks like the moron is shouting), for everyone to gawk at: “Touchy touchy. Go eat a doughnut. You know how much pastries love you”.

Now for a man who knows that the one thing to reduce me to a rock bottom state of emo is my weight, makes him a real tosser. He has had the plug pulled.

As dear Bubbles of Little Britain would say, “I am so ovaaa you, it’s unbelieeeeeeevable!!!”

I think my lesson is learned thought. My tastes in the male department seem to be for troubled, alternative grungers, with no father and a substance abuse problem. And three of them seem to have been left handed. And it is highly likely that they will be either Libra, Scorpio or Sagittarius. Really, these themes truly present when I look at all the features of my exes. So from now on, I am going for right handed Cancerians who have never even smoked pot, who have a fantastic relationship with their father, no tattoos or fondness of grunge and are fully self supporting of their own contributions.

Sad thing is, that is rarely possible – most men fitting that description are either

a.    Gay
b.    Taken


c.    Just not appealing.

For those of you that know me, if I ever settle for anything less than these points again though, slap me. And do it harder this time, the last four times have not worked.

Chatting with same friend who mentioned the manly fish holding photo, I came to a conclusion I have been aware of for a while – when men treat me like shit, I become utterly besotted. When they are nice, I could not care less because there is zero challenge. Oh man, am I one sick puppy.

So this realisation seems to present a major problem: I am not attracted to men that are healthy and kind individuals who will never hurt me. That throws marriage out in the gutter.

I think I am just going to stay single forever.

And slap me if I don’t stick to that above statement. Actually, whack me with a tyre iron, because the last ten times haven’t worked.


Cockroaches and Gym

Posted in Random Randoms with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 4, 2008 by starstripe

I really am a danger to myself.

After getting home from chairing an NA meeting, I was pretty much buggered, but with a healthy eating plan being a part of my life and trying to shift my post rehab weight (not like Nicole Richie thanks), I endeavored to make some veggies and tuna to munch on whilst I got down to doing some writing. Having put some butternut and other veg on the stove, I retreated to my room to write. After spending an hour playing Mob Wars on Facebook, I realized a smell of burnt butternut was seeping into my room from my kitchen. I dashed to the stove and found the veggies in a state of charcoaling at the bottom of the pot. Scraping out what wasn’t burnt to eat for dinner, I remembered my mother’s clever advice for burnt pot cleaning – add some Handy Andy in hot water in the pot and boil it on a low setting for a little while. So I made my cleaning fluid concoction and put the burnt pot on the stove to boil slowly and went back to my room to do attempt some writing again.

After playing another hour of Mob Wars, once again, I was alerted by a burning smell as before. But this burning smell was worse than vegetables. It was burnt Handy Andy. The pot was even more black, but this time, it stank. If you have ever burnt soap, you will know what this smells like but unless you are either a soap maker or as stupid as I am, you will not have experienced this pungent aroma. Like bad soap. Evil soap. Disgusting soap. The fumes were so strong I had to open all the doors in my house leading outside to try and get rid of the smell, hoping the toxic vapour would not kill me or make me high. It took a while, and a lot of toilet spray before I could breathe again without wanting to bring up my burnt dinner.

The pot is still sitting on my stove, I am hoping that if I ignore it, it will clean itself and put itself away in the cupboard without bothering anyone like a good pot.

So this evening, my new housemate came to visit. After many cups of coffee, cigarettes and talk about our messed up parents, I went to my computer to show him my prized and illegal copy of the Muse live at Wembley DVD. Now I love Muse. I love Matthew Bellamy and want to marry him. But then I found out he married some Italian wench called Gaia POLLONY, and it made me quite upset. Pollony?!!! Bitch. She ruined the song Starlight for me. She told English Cosmo it belongs to her and Matt. Seriously, she can have it. I had dreams of him dedicating it to me from a packed stage in London. Not any more, thanks to that ungrateful skank.

So I was busy gushing over how talented he is and monitoring his incredible piano playing talent (Matthew Bellamy, not house mate, I don’t know if he can play piano) with my back to my bedroom wall.

“Oh look a cockroach” my new housemate alerted me.

Turning around I observed what is the one thing in the world that terrifies me though most – a roach. Ever since a bad experience in Durban with a nonexistent pendant on a necklace and a three inch cockroach, I have not been a fan. At all.

And this particular roach was about the length of my index finger and FAT. And whirring its feelers. On my wall.

In a panic, I lurched backwards, away from the wall but could not get far as my desk was in the way. Treading on my poor new housemate’s foot, I fled the room, taking a few speakers with me who’s cables were caught around my other foot.

Anyway, I doomed the roach, stood on it and doomed it again. And then stood on it again. Apologising profusely to my new roomie, I felt about as big as that roach. Well, maybe smaller. He said it was fine, but I don’t think his foot agreed.

I have to go to bed now, gym in the morning.

Ah I love the gym. And detest it at the same time. It amazes me how some ladies can pull off full make up and a workout without breaking a sweat. Thing is, the men at the gym are hardly “modest”. The ones that are modest are modest for a reason. If I was to think of anywhere worse to pick a man up than a gym, it would have to be Cmax prison. But the gym is pretty bad.

A while ago, what must have been an ex rugby star who got thrown out of the sport for steroids was next to me on a treadmill. Literally this guy put the damn machine on so fast he couldn’t keep up with it. Seeing a man with a 100kg frame running at 15km/hr is quite something. And not something that lasts. After about ten seconds and almost coming off the back, he stopped the machine, did a kind of “yeah”-self affirmation-type-effort and hopped off.

Later I was on a rowing machine and he got onto the one next to me. I was beginning to get a complex – was he going on the same machines as me to make himself look better? Maybe it was in my head, but when he started pulling the rowing cord so hard that he could have powered New York with for a month from the machine (but only for about ten seconds), I began to wonder. And then… the girlfriend turned up.

Not particularly pretty, but one of the ‘in girls’ slaving to status came up. I wondered if it was his sister but no, definately his girlfriend. Now if this guy had been a gentle and nice person, I could have seen reason behind the couple. But this guy was far from it and a complete egotist. Who had been thrown out of rugby for steroids, remember?

Then I realized the mutual benefit of the Christina Storm/James small relationship –  the rugby man, model woman relationship strategy. She wants money and fame status, he wants prettier-lady-than-his-neighbour-status. Well they definitely had that. And not much else, maybe two brain cells between them. I see them at the gym often, him pushing weights far too heavy for him which he drops on occasion and she doing alluring stretches in front of the mirror. I wish them the best; it seems a mutually beneficial relationship. Maybe with their two brain cells added together they have a fighting chance of finding the car in the parking lot after their workout. I have names for them – steroid banned rugby man and pretty but brainless cling on.

There are other names for the regulars I see there: anorexic alcoholic woman, extremely hairy KGB man, ultra muscly coloured lady, fitness junkie grandma, insane Indian groaning man and crazy naked stretching woman (don’t ask – if you have been inside a gym changing room, you know what I am talking about)¸amongst others.

The changing rooms in the gym scare me. My first month at the gym I would leave the ladies room feeling rather violated and like crying. I don’t know if it is just me, but I pretty much shower in a towel. I don’t have a great figure but I think if I did, I would not take part in the naked acrobatics that those women seem to love.  When I was in high school, I had the art of getting my gym kit on under my school uniform before removing uniform technique down to a tee. But these ladies must have gone to a French school or something.

The things I have seen in that locker room… cannot be unseen. Really, I have come close to vomiting. Not from bad hygiene, just from attention seeking displays of ladies private parts that I really, really, really, really could do without seeing. Actually one incident was bad hygiene. A rather large lady in the steam room was not using a towel and had her, erm, nether regions spread across the tiles. When she got up, she made the most massive squelching sound from her private parts suctioning on the tiles that I nearly vomited on the spot. Apart from that, the general naked bitchiness is just a little too much to handle, but I am a little more used to it by now.

When it comes to the machines, I am the bitch, I always look at what everyone else is doing on their screens and if I am going at a harder rate than them, I feel like a better person. Fuck the lot of them 