9:06pm Me: Can you come over tomorrow
9:26pm Her: I wanna take a break
9:26pm Her: A long break
10:07pm Me: Ok
And we’re done.
What was the stoush that led up to this? Nothing. Our last communication was about the passionfruit she gave me. I had failed to invite her over all weekend, though. Before that she asked if I wanted to travel with her to Thailand and I said I was too busy. The last time I saw her we got along fine and she came once or twice, not that it’s important. Then this.
Yet it was not entirely a bolt from the blue. I suspect it was a preemptive strike. She’d done a few too many shit things, said a few too many retarded things, and my patience was running out even if she is thirteen years my junior. She’d tried to start fights all the time because she’d enjoyed dramatic arguments with her ex-girlfriend. She would try to make out that I wasn’t letting her come over just because she had her period when in fact I clearly was inviting her over. Worst of all, I predicted she would fitness test me for emotional weakness after the death of my father and she did. She asked me why I didn’t look upset and then remarked with a cutesy smile that I should return to my distressed state. Ambiguous, deniable: that’s how girls do it. Later she texted me saying she wouldn’t see me for a month to punish herself for saying something that annoyed me. I ignored her and she ended up coming over anyway, breaking her ‘joke’ sexual fast 29 days early. Despising her for these shenanigans would be as irrational as hating a crocodile for swallowing a drunken German backpacker who had unwisely gone skinny dipping in Kakadu. And yes, in this simile I’m the kraut.
For a while it’s fun to fuck a horrid girl that you hate but it gets old. Actually, sleeping with any girl gets old. After three months with the sweetest, most beautiful woman imaginable I’d no longer be beside myself with excitement; after six months I’d be repulsed like she’d morphed into Lena Dunham’s syphilitic grandma. This girl was getting that way and she knew it. I was already looking elsewhere. I saw her breakup message and thought, oh. Time to get some fresh produce. I’d known for some time that she was a worthless, nubile sack of of shit and that it wouldn’t last for long. It didn’t.
Older or more conservative readers might be shocked that a half-year relationship could finish so abruptly, with so little discussion or ceremony, but that is how we live. Let us journey backwards in time now, dear reader, and observe how some previous ‘relationships’ have eased themselves onto the rocks and sunk gladly beneath the uncaring waves:
[Background: the following lady had said she was off work sick with period pain and my only response was to send her a picture of a cat relaxing in a hammock.]
Her: I say I am sick and you just send me that picture? Of course, I cannot expect you will say ‘how are you’ or bring me anything because I know you are not a boyfriend who does the thing like that, and that is fine.
Me: I make you upset all the time. I can’t make you happy. I need a break for a while.
Her: You are breaking up with me? I am so upset.
Or something like that, lost the original messages. In that case I was already over her. I’d met the next girl and I was just waiting for the older model to give me a good excuse to say the hard word. It was a short wait because no woman can resist bitchy whining for very long. I regret to say that this dirty trick has become my modus operandi.
And further back in time: I’d discovered my girl had recently updated her online dating profile pictures, including some where I’d been present! We stumbled on for a little while but eventually I sent her a message saying I’d had enough. She actually stalked me for a while, sending presents to my apartment and frequently messaging me. Usually things end more suddenly.
The case before that, messages verbatim:
Her: I found this article about east and west culture difference, maybe can help you understand me
Me: . . .
I went ghost on that one because she was nuts. I only saw her twice. Both times we shagged. Both times she talked about her ex -boyfriend until she cried – the Australian boyfriend she’d lived with in Brisbane, who she’d refused to sleep with and who she’d cheated on with a sleazy real estate tycoon. Even by my standards she was an utter mentalist.
Previous to that, I had about three girlfriends in Japan who were still on the books when I left the country. There was no particular breakup and I might see a couple of them again. Some of those girls, we’ve been ‘together’ so long they’ve wall splattered. But I might shag them again just for old time’s sake. Who was it that said I was an unfeeling wanker? Was it you, dear reader? Correct yourself and self-flagellate with a wire colander. It will help ease your remorse. I think only of your well being.
The last time I had a proper breakup was with an older, still very attractive woman who had massive, massive tits. The first time she volumped them out I thought I was on the set of one of those Japanese porn movies. You know the ones. Wonderful. But the salient point is, she was a psychopath and I needed to beat a hasty retreat. I was terrified when I crept over to her house to deliver the news because I was afraid she might stab me. In the end she just cried and that was it, with only moderate stalking (by Japanese standards) afterwards. She was a horrible person and didn’t deserve such respect. It was after that I decided I wouldn’t have proper relationships any more and ended up finding the red pill. But golly, those boobs. Still they haunt my dreams.
Having the most recent hoochie mama break up with me with such brutality makes me feel vindicated about the vicious way I’ve treated other girls. I always think, ‘She’d do it to me if she could,’ and she would. Just like how a cow turned carnivore would happily chow down on the most effete of squealing vegetarians.
It isn’t nasty breakups you’ve got to worry about these days. Take them for granted. What the modern, sexually active man needs to protect himself from are unwanted pregnancy (not his own), false rape accusations, disease and scorned women who go nuts and try to destroy his stuff or his career. The last is a common risk in this country, where wronged women frequently call the offending fellow’s company with complaints and evidence of his evil doings until he gets fired or she is physically exhausted. The most recent girl had helpfully mentioned that she was the kind of person who might take such revenge and I pointed out that I’d never written anything too douchey, saucy, racist or sexist in messages (I’d only said them) and that my foreign employer would just call her a nutcase. I also pointed out that CCTV would show me kindly seeing her to the elevator, and her departing my carpark with a satisfied grin upon her face every time she had visited me. In other words, no rape. She had that busted look in her eye that girls have when their shit has been called. Now, perhaps, you can see why it’s better she broke up with me, or at least that she can tell herself she did.
Breakups are easy. Lost count of how many I’ve done. I can remember a time when I was nice and they were intense, but that’s so long ago it feels like someone else’s memory. Someone I sort of like, sort of pity, but don’t want to socialize with because the miserable bastard would drag me down to the muddy bottom of the ocean like a leaden weight.
Further reading: The Waters in Which We Swim
Follow me on Twatter: @nvladivostok1