one down...four hundred and ninety-nine to go...

It was perhaps a fitting, final tribute to the under whelming strength and passion of our dying marriage that it took almost nine days before I realised my wife HAD actually left me and moved out.



And I want you to remember this next snippet of information for the moment; she often came home drunk/drug-fucked at 4am, marching into the bedroom holding a garbage bin she’d found somewhere, on which she used to climb and stand unsteadily before yelling “I’m trashed” (which I actually used to think was awfully clever/cute) before falling asleep and wetting the bed (full story later). The reason I want you to remember this salient fact is because SHE LEFT ME !!! And with good reason too; which gives you a glimmer of insight into what sort of special cunt I am.
Now whilst I might not have been the most attentive partner/husband in the world, you’d think that her vanishing entirely without my noticing, the makeover equivalent of her shaving her head and my asking if she’d done something with her hair, showed either a total lack of interest or a total presence of indifference on my part…but to be fair there were excuses.
We had both apparently taken our marital vow to spend the rest of eternity boring each other senseless and systematically extracting the very life-marrow from each other’s being so seriously, that what should have taken fifty years of applied apathy and contemptible familiarity to accomplish…had in fact been done in a mere three-and-a-bit.
And I wish I could look back at the mangled wreckage and say that we just drifted apart, as often happens in marriage, but the fact is we were wrong for each other from the very beginning.
I still remember my wife’s first private spoken words; she poodled up to me at the pub after listening to a terribly clever argument I was having with the small crowd we were in…and when they had all left she leaned in and whispered, ‘You’re a complete cunt,’ after which we went home and fucked up a storm. Initially, the opposition created a delicious attraction, like two magnets obeying some bizarre law of electrosexual-magnetism. Then, not long after the thrill of angrily rubbing ourselves together in the mindless pursuit of orgasm subsided, we got our first reality check. We weren’t magnets…nor even ships eventually destined to pass in the night; I was ‘Titanic’…elegant, stately, and unsinkable…and she was the iceberg…cold, hard and immovable.
Well, not really…but I had fun writing the analogy so I'll go with it for the moment.
A more truthful version might be that from my point of view I was fun personified, a clown on nitrous…and she was the antidote. Of course my wife might remember it differently; however until she writes her own fucking book the world can just take my word for what happened.
You see we’d been having a trial separation for the previous three months, although we were still living under the same roof. She had moved out of the Master Fun Room into the guest bedroom and taken her belongings with.
Now, when I say trial separation, I assumed it was a trial in the sense of it being an experiment; as in a clinical trial where we would compare the respective quality of our lives with and without each other.
My wife on the other hand decided that it was a trial in the sense of it being a jurisprudential ambush; as in a legal trial where I would be accused of a litany of crimes against matrimony…

And for posterity...and perhaps entering in The Buller-Lytton Fiction Contest...

Unquestionably the key to our dramatic success in failing was the almost metronomic consistency with which we were diametrically opposed throughout the course of our relationship. Initially that opposition made for a veritable smorgasbord of personal attraction served with lashings of spirited debate and deliciously angry, passionate sex. I still remember my wife’s first private spoken words; she poodled up to me at the pub after listening to a terribly clever argument I was having with the small crowd we were in…and after they had all drifted away she leaned in and whispered, ‘You’re a complete cunt,’ after which we went home and fucked up a storm.
Of course some time later, upon discovering we were not in fact metal objects rubbing together violently in the mindless pursuit of achieving predestined orgasms in accordance with the immutable laws of electro-sexual-magnetism…but frail human beings looking for just the barest thread of mutual connection…the opposition began to cancel out the previous benefit of our respective personal polarities, so that when added together their sum was eventually zero.