What the protocol is when one meets an ex or the ex of a bestfriend, I cannot purport to know. I’m as rough cut in that department as a large lump of coal taking ageing supplements to somehow bring closer the time when it’ll be able to strut diamondesque among its peers. But eh. I think that metaphor fucked me. It looked down from the skies and said, “Screw anonymity. I shall be used, even if context eludes me.”
Point is, it’s always between crushing awkwardness and a (usually asphyxiated-in-it’s-sleep) longing to make them start friending and vanting me again. That’s for my exes.
When it comes to the idiotic malignant piece of mangled testicle that passes for one’s bestfriend’s ex with his stupid looking hair and prematurely winkled brow, things get a lot more complicated.
I try to calculate how much trouble I can cause without bringing the world crushing down on my head and causing me to misuse the considerable mental energy that I have for things as petty as making MacGyver type escape plans. I say “If I bash Antony’s head in, will the people at this party conclude that I’m the bad guy and throw me out?” coz I’m not the bad guy. He is. He’s the sort of trash that even the rats of Ankh Morpok won’t touch with their plague ridden feet. He’s got nothing. He’s the festering ejaculate of the rest of the world.
I then wonder if I should perhaps talk to him, friend him, find out what his side of the story really is because what the hell we’re at a bottle party and he’s alone most of the time. Also, he’s plopped his devil bums on a chair at my table and there’s only so much I can do to ignore him. Fucker is all over the side of my left eye! Naye, Fuck knowing his side of the story. He’s thrown it out at every tom, Robert and bosco. He may as well publish “Pity me pity me. The genocide collapsed all my reserves of dignity and human feeling. Pity my pretty little head. Suck on my guitar.”
Anyway, normally I’ll rush in head first, spill a few drinks, break a few bottles, hurl drunken abuse, nothing special. Just as I’m about to do that though, the famed siren, Helen of Kyaliwajala, Joan of raft walks in. I am made aware that she is his bitch. The person for who he peed on my friend’s heart. She finds her home in his lap and I seriously consider forgetting my glass between her front teeth.
But why all the fuss, why can’t I live and let live? My baby isn’t here, she isn’t hurting anymore and this girl is such a sad stab at the brilliance that is her that eish. She can pass through the valley of my rage unharmed. Predatory eagles have never been inclined to go after earthworms.
So now it has been established in my mind that violence isn’t going to make an appearance tonight and I’m slightly relieved. This dress wouldn’t survive it. It’s way tighter than I thought.
I content myself with observation, which is neither hidden nor timid. I direct the full wattage of my eyes at the two of them and this is what I see: If my baby’s mind yawned, it could swallow both of theirs whole and later need a stomach pump, because stupidity is indigestible.
She’s a normal girl with mediocre taste in clothes. She’s pretty but not in any particularly special way. She looks slightly like one of her lisping kin (who I just have to mention, in case she reads this and feels left out) and she’s even got that snappy-finger bitchery going on (which I establish after I, in a bubble of cake/liquor induced joy ask what her name is (to savor the proximity and the power vested in my fist with which I can punch her face in). She snaps her nose against her mouth, making her look more like a half moon than I thought possible.)
*Sigh. They’re perfect for each other and will surely populate the world with offspring who will have a lot of nothing to offer.
I conclude now as I concluded then that my boo is in a much less headache inducing place and regardless of how arsey the whole situation has been, tis over.
Now. Who knows how to live and let live? Tips are vahree welcome.
In keeping with the title, rrribbit.