The following is a work of fiction, very loosely based on my own experiences. Okay, not VERY loosely. But still loosely.
As I put down the phone, my life flashed before my eyes. To be honest, it wasn’t a very long show, but man, it certainly jerked a tear or two (Okay, I gushed. But in a manly way. Really). Images of the times we spent together, the times when we used to rent DVDs and watch them over in her house back in London, the times we spent walking in Hyde Park, holding hands like all young couples do.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. When she told me that it was over, that she was leaving me for a former friend, I couldn’t believe it. Not again. Not after all that I’ve been through, the promises that I made to myself, to never again be hurt this way. Not after all the shit I had to put up with, her being the insecure person that she was. She’s changed, that’s for sure. She’s no longer the person she was before. Boy, did she make that clear.
I was stunned. What was I to do? For days I spent my miserable waking hours drowning in tubs of Phish Food (okay, not tubs, but vats). The local grocery store must think I’m some manna from heaven, bringing them luck and good fortune as I drifted my way into the store with a serene smile that comes from consuming about three gallons of ice-cream in two hours, my hands holding two pieces of ten-ringgit notes as I grabbed the nearest (or the two nearest) half gallon bucket (or two) of Phish Food.
As I sat in front of the TV, my t-shirt stained pink from the drippings, I gave a loud belch. Big mistake. Streams of semi-digested ice-cream, which had previously been, well, digesting peacefully in the flabby depths of my stomach, suddenly decided to make a rush for the exits. Unfortunately for me, they all went the wrong way. “Duhh.. let’s all rush out together! Which door should we go for, huh? Duhh.. I can’t read, but I’m pretty sure ‘M-O-U-T-H” spells Exit!!”
Darned semi-digested (yet imaginary) ice-cream rednecks.
To cut a long story short (was it that long a story to begin with?), my face ended up in a bowl which, truth be told, was never actually designed for the human face (it was actually designed for another, less fascinating aspect of the human anatomy. Okay. Correction. For most people, that side of the human anatomy is not fascinating; there are some men, however, who find it terribly interesting. These men usually provoke a very strong reaction from other men, usually manifesting itself in lightning quick sprints in the opposite direction, away from the former).
My gut hurt. My heart hurt. Heck, my head hurts, primarily due to the restrictive nature of the (ahem) ‘bowl’. It was then that I decided that I had to move on. I had to pick up the pieces of this so-called life of mine and try to make it on my own. I had no other choice, really. What else was I going to do? Go on eating tub after tub of ice-cream, growing old and fat, losing my job because I was so fat that I couldn’t get out of the house, becoming a shut-in living on cans of pre-packed pasta? Heck, no! I’m a man! I’ll find another girl! Me no scared! Me Grog! Me have big stick! Muahahaha!
My primeval spirits were roused. I was ready to take on the world. But first…
I have to figure out how to get my head out of the toilet bowl. Hmmm…
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