My Ex's Blog

Is just a pure pile of unbelievable SHIT. I have never read so many lies, half-truths, made-up nonsense, and absolute fantasy all rolled into one mediocre journal entry. Many of the entries are nearly as imaginative as the one I read today, but that one seriously takes the Cake of Ridiculousness.

First of all. FIRST of all. First of ALL.

WTF does my boyfriend-in-waiting's name have to do with the price of crack in Sunderland? How is this remotely relevant? What does it matter? He changed it when he was 8 years old, for godsakes; I hardly think he was a hardened criminal by then. And even if he had been, it would have been a juvenile record, and no one would be able to find out anyway, so there'd be no reason to change his name in the first place.

As it happens, there are personal, family-based reasons for the change. NO, he was not molested--he's on good terms with both his parents, all his assorted relatives, he calls his mum and uncle at least once a week and his dad when possible--but, well basically, he's taken his mum's surname following his parents' divorce. His first name? He flat didn't like it, and it is WAY too common in this country, so he changed that at the same time. Hey presto, a name you can be comfortable with; and it's nothing to do with being on the wrong side of the law.

Secondly--WTF is my soon-to-be-ex-husband smoking? Because my BIW has never had a previous girl, he's going to turn into a crazy, uncontrollable, bad-tempered jackass because he might have a little more responsibility than he used to in the past? Oh, husband, grow the fuck up. Talk about viewing *everything* through the narrow, tainting, misanthropic lens of your own sordid feelings and experiences. Just because YOU can't cope with the reality of what everyone else calls 'life' doesn't make everyone else equally incompetent. Learn to be a fucking man, you spineless, mindless, whingy bastard, and if you can't, at least learn not to take shots at someone purely for being more of a man than you.

YES, I said it. Floppy fringe, gay accent, general Southern fairy behaviour notwithstanding, he is so much more of a man than you are. Moreover, he's a good man--and that in particular is something you'd know nothing about.

Oh, husband-who-we'll-call-Pedro-for-the-purposes-of-the-blog. Pedro. You misguided fuck. Will you never understand?

If you had been *half* the man he is, I'd never have looked elsewhere.

Moving on, to my third point; how much do you NOT understand this, at all? ''Seducing my wife;'' he couldn't seduce a newly-divorced 40-year-old with the lowest self-esteem imaginable, much less a young, pretty, reasonably confident woman. He'd crap his pants if he tried. He'd piss himself. He'd be a shaking, nervous, gibbering wreck--which I'd know, because I kissed him on the cheek once and he nearly fell over, OMG-WTF-RL-GRRL-style.

Don't kid yourself. Seduce your wife, indeed. You wanna look at that from the appropriate, and completely opposite, angle?

And, for my fourth and final point. "He's no Prince Charming...."

Too bloody right he's not. A prince would be like you and your useless brother, a couple of spoilt, selfish little kids, who sit on their lazy backsides while their mummy runs around after their 30-year-old asses, cooking and cleaning and making packed lunches and ironing their shirts and just generally shielding them from the harsh unfairnesses of life. A prince might be someone who, when he can't be arsed to work, goes on the sick for 6 months at a time, or lets his wife forgo university to get a full-time job while he's on the dole, or who can't fix a goddamn broken toilet seat for 2 years straight. THOSE are examples of princes. God forbid that I should ever, ever be stuck with one of those again--because princes don't want princesses. They want slaves.

Like fuck am I anyone's slave.

And like fuck am I some blushing maiden in a tower somewhere, while we're on that subject. I'm a WOMAN, in all the best and worst incarnations of that word. I am, in no particular order, a compassionate shoulder to lean on, a friendly conversationalist, a great fuck, a fun night out, an arguably more fun night in, a spirited debater, a tease, a good laugh, a possibly talented writer, a relatively logical thinker, a realist, a pragmatist, a dreamer, a romantic, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a lover, and potentially one of the finest examples of life partner anyone could hope to snag. I am beautiful. I am unique. I am capable and intelligent and interesting and likable and shaggable and so, SO many things you never took advantage of; yet all the while, you very much took advantage of ME.

Never again. That will just never happen again. I've managed to find someone who *sees* me, as I am, not just my good points, but also my flaws, and he sees them as they are. He sees the minutiae composing all the smaller facets of who I am, but he doesn't miss the way it all fits together. He is concerned with the little details, but he doesn't neglect the bigger picture.

I can well believe that someone like you, would have trouble understanding someone like him. But I'll try and put it into perspective for you; think back, 7, 8, 9, nearly 10 years... there was a girl, a sweet, shy, trusting, thoughtful, perceptive, intelligent, moral, unique, interesting, potential-laden girl, a girl like no one you'd ever met before, just waiting for someone to give her a chance to show them how fantastic and amazing she was, underneath all that shyness and lack of self-confidence.

Now imagine that it's not a girl, but a grown man, whose worst vices are a touch of Japanophilia and his love of a rousing game of Left 4 Dead, and whose attributes include all of the above, plus a hell of a work ethic, a sense of personal responsibility, and more general kindness than any man I've met before or since... and you'll kind of understand what I see in him.

No Prince Charming? No shit. He's more of a white knight; but instead of trying to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away, oh-I'll-handle-it-dear style, he's actually not rescuing me--he believes in me enough to help me rescue myself.

Don't you get it? It's not about whether he drops me in the shit or not, in the end... it's the fact that he knows, if he did, I'd just handle it. Because I am. Capable. Of running my own life.

He doesn't try to isolate, or bully, or manipulate, or coerce me into needing him--he wants me to *want* to be with him. Not because he thinks I can't make it on my own, or because I'm just a little woman and I need a big strong man to look after me and sort my life out--but because he's aware that I AM getting my life in order, and I'd like someone equally pleasant, and bright, and capable, and likable, and just plain fun, to share that life with.

And now I've found him. I have finally, maybe, no-chickens-counted-but-fingers-well-and-truly-crossed, found him.

And everyone who's got a problem can just FUCK RIGHT OFF.

:)