We Go Together Like Muffins and Tetanus

Mark* and I had been engaged for seven years when he decided he didn’t want that anymore. He said “It’s not you, it’s me, we’re too different, lorem ipsum salmon weetbix” and something about me never listening. I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. As an emotional experience it ranks right up there with being stabbed in the eyeball with a pitchfork made entirely out of tetanus and despair.

We did the whole “Let’s be friends” thing, which is break-up code for “I WILL CUT YOU”. But you try. Because you see, you guys, a relationship is like a garden. Sometimes it grows and blossoms into something beautiful, sometimes you forget to care for it and it withers and dies, and sometimes it’s all Mark’s fault that it shattered into a million pieces of broken dreams and oh god, I’m so lonely, someone put a baby in me. And by “baby”, I mean tequila.

I moved out of our shared home. With nowhere to go, I ended up living in my car. By which I mean, I sat in my car for half an hour crying into a packet of Doritos while I listened to You Oughta Know on repeat, and then drove to my parents’ place. But for half an hour there I was homeless. It was rough and now I have street smarts. I WILL CUT YOU! See…?

Mama Bishop took one look at my bags, gave me a banana muffin and told me to try not to set her house on fire this time. Dad fed me rum and blamed my break up on the Asians. And the gays. And the gay Asians. At times my dad is, shall we say, “sobriety challenged”. He’s also left-nut-hanging-out-the-bottom-of-his-shorts challenged, but that’s a whole other story.

My folks thrust mountains of food at me, because it’s a proven fact that you can’t be sad with six cream buns and half a packet of Tim Tams shoved down your neck hole. Mama Bishop baked banana muffins at 4am every morning while Dad tried to teach me about the facts of life using a piece of chicken and his shoe, and the whole thing just worked.

The thing is, you need to be around people who love you when everything turns to custard. Because every little drama becomes much more than you can really cope with by yourself, and you find yourself sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor screaming “First Mark leaves me and now I can’t find the butter! When will it all end?!” Then your mama hands you another banana muffin and tells you to put some pants on, and it’s all okay again. And that’s why God invented parents.

So here I am. Thirty(mumble) years old, starting over. New home, new suburb, new life. But as they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you hit your ex with a speeding Ford Falcon…

…don’t tell the judge….

*Totally his real name.

Bollocksy randomness