Sunday, May 22, 2011

The Crimes of Inanimate Objects

My fiance is fast on his way to becoming my ex-fiance. It has not been the easiest process (and has not been without a fair bit of bad behavior on my part), but its high time he got a loser-ex post of his very own.

I'm going to try to tell this story without falling into "why my ex deserves to rot in hell" territory, so there's going to be a good bit left out. But what's left is still pretty nuts.

Let's start by saying that, of the contributors to this blog, I am likely the most tolerant, most liberal, and least affluent one of the bunch, with the shortest list of deal-breakers. I'm also the only one still stuck in the South, so maybe I just have less to choose from. At any rate, I put up with things that, frankly, I don't think RGB would. In fact, last time I saw her, she point blank told me that she had very serious concerns about my current relationship. I'm pretty sure she told me that I SHOULD NOT marry my fiance. And she was, as she so often is, right. But this blog is not about the serious reasons for the demise of our relationships, so we aren't going to get into that.

I'm a bit of a partier (causing RGB to despair of my poor behavior on numerous occasions). So, naturally, I often end up with men of a similar mindset. My soon-to-be ex-fiance (let's call him Beethoven) is an example of this.

Beethoven had (how shall I put it?) a problem with illegal recreational substances--and not just the relatively innocuous one you're probably thinking of. He has since gotten over this, but when we were first dating it was bad. Unfortunately, it took me quite some time to understand just how bad it was.

One night, after we had moved in together, he came home quite intoxicated--alcohol, plus other things. I tried to get him to go to bed, but we ended up in an argument instead. He left and I went to bed.

Several hours later, I awoke to screaming coming from the living room. I walked into the room to find Beethoven sitting on the love seat, yelling at my body pillow (which was propped upright on the sofa), accusing it of having stolen the television. And, indeed, our large and expensive flat-screen television was gone.

You can imagine my confusion. I was still groggy and Beethoven was telling me that a pillow had stolen our television. Looking back on it, several years later, it has become no less absurd.

To this day, we do not know what happened to the television. Beethoven has no memory of the night and our best lead implicates a navy blue body pillow in the theft.

So, beware of rogue pillows. Apparently, they are more sinister than they first appear.