Miss Makeover's Xmyth from Hell. My Ex-Husband
By Rollerblade on December 21, 2010
I saw my son. We exchanged presents and hugs, at the fortified compound run by the fat hag and my ex-husband. My son is not allowed to come to my house since I was caught with ketamine at his birthday party. Now before you start siding with him, small amounts of K can act as a sort of sparkly trippy speed and I was exhausted. Ketamine provides exactly the sort of fairy tale glitter required for a children’s fancy dress party, especially one featuring demanding little princesses. And rampaging and rampaging little hooligans. It was in fact the only way to get through a very lively afternoon after a sleepless night. Go on then, judge me harshly. I’m sure any mothers reading this haven’t got stuck well into their prescribed painkillers from time to time or taken a quick swig of Chardonnay. My own mother put little nips of gin into my bottle to stop me crying and allow herself some sleep. But that was then. When the parents were in charge. Now the little loonies run the asylum – kids and Guardian-reading pansies like my ex-husband.
How come you fell in love with him? You may ask. Well, he was once a funny guy who had the same problems with his parents as I did. We liked some of the same music and films. He used to wear black silk shirts, faded jeans, lizard skin loafers and discreet red cuff links, this while his OK Yah! mates were wearing rugby shirts. They’d gather to bray at each other in Gastro Pubs, in the same Thomas Pink shirts they wore for business, just leaving the ties off for evenings and weekends. Now, since the tyranny of the trollop, he looks like a new age traveler, shapeless pullover damp with soya milk, beard flecked with muesli.
Having inherited enough money to become a tireless (and tiresome) eco-warrior, he’s recently grown a beard, shaking his fist in the face of taste, aesthetics, civilization itself. I bet flecks of muesli stick in it. And it will taste of soya milk. How many time do I hate thee. Let me count the ways. His ferocious nose blowing – random trumpetings that would always catch me off-guard. These dry spluttering eruptions sounded like a knackered car trying to start. And you could never tell when, or if, they would ever stop.
What does it matter? We grew apart. Most people would say he grew up and I went feral. But you know what? Fuck them. They’re just jealous. I do what I want and I don’t have to get up before noon. Enjoy the school run, you prissy prudes, gridlocked up in your four by fours. I’ll carry on striping the backsides of my needy, timewasting ‘slaves’. Caning them from cold till they bleed. Slaves, you’d get more deference from the average snooty fashion shop assistant. It’s always about them. Well, two words for you lot, Fem-Dom. It’s not called Slave-Dom, is it? Just try to remember that the next time you open your mouths to inform me of your needs. To adapt Marcus Aurelius, Don’t get aggravated by Mother Nature. The Goddess doesn’t care. Now be off with you.