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The Uninvited Guest

The Uninvited Guest

There it was bursting with pride like a mother on her child’s first day of school. Typically when the school bell chimes 9 o’clock the mum usually walks back to her parked SUV, blasts some Michael Buble and leaves. This visitor did not. It stayed stationery in 5 minute school drop off zone, windows down, blasting some Australian pub rock. This visitor’s intentions were clear: it was here to stay.

I tried ignoring this uninvited guest. I avoided eye contact and reflective surfaces, but the damn thing was so persistent and constantly vying for my attention. Even when he wasn’t visible to me, his presence was felt. It was a seething presence that was deep, sordid and painful.

My attempts at tough love were thwarted because the meaner I was, the keener he became. By day three this guest was reciting Shakespeare sonnets to the tune of Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’ in my bathroom. Sometimes he would write love letters to me on the foggy bathroom mirror.

From the very start my message was loud and clear: I wanted this uninvited guest out of my life. I changed tact and decided to do what any girl who wants to get rid of a guy quick and fast should: smother him. I was going to method act my way out of this situation according to the doctrine of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

At first and rather annoyingly, he enjoyed being show- ered with love and devotion. I started taking selfies of us together to send to my friends, and instead of wincing, he would ask if we were doing duck face or a Kardashian pout. At night before we would go to bed, I would wash my face and pinch him tight, hoping he would pop and our relationship would die. Occasionally he’d weep some puss-filled tears. He never once complained. He said he loved my murderous ‘hugs’.

After the sixth day, he had comfortably saddled into life

The next morning when he woke up, he was half the size and looking a little worse for wear. He was dry, scaly, shrunken. I offered to help.

I mixed a solution of heavy-duty concealer and applied it with fingertip precision to the scorned area, making sure to blend with the technique of a Renaissance master. I added a topcoat of powdered foundation next. I am not saying I am an artist. What I am saying is the paint job I did that day was worthy of the Louvre, because as we left the house for the morning, I looked in the mirror and it was like he didn’t even exist.

That night after work things were different. He was distant and we ate our dinner in silence. The clinking of cutlery between every mouthful created a somber tune worthy of a Phillip Glass orchestral intro and we went to bed early. My plan was working.

Day ten had finally arrived. I woke up with a spring in my step. For the first time in over a week my head was not sitting lopsided when I walked. My lower left cheek no longer looked like it was transporting a bag of something highly illegal over the border either. It felt regular sized.

I shuffled to the bathroom for confirmation and there was a message waiting for me on the foggy mirror. It said:

I need more from this relationship. I need more unbalanced oestrogen. I need a hore who mones. Goodbye xo

as one half of a couple. Now that he was no longer on the prowl, he dropped the act and let himself go. He doubled in size and was redder than ever. His wardrobe changed too, now he was hell bent intent on wearing a white pustule crown wherever we went. He wore it with gusto too, like a rapper with a diamond dollar sign hanging around his neck, unapologetic and proud. His deception hurt me so badly that I would almost cry when I touched him, the pain was real and tender.

Day eight and desperation kicked in. I contemplated putting a bounty on him. I only decided against this because he was so attached to me and I was afraid the sniper might miss the target, accidentally shooting me instead.

I can’t say I am proud of what I did next. I am sure given the circumstances you would have done the same. I bribed my date with a romantic dinner and then purposefully got my date drunk. Really, really drunk. Drunk on a spot treatment.

‘Is that burning sensation normal?’ he asked.
‘Darling, I got this wine from Black Hearts & Sparrow, so you know it’s good,’ I explained.
‘It’s one of those natural wines with a bit of spice. It’s like curry made from grapes and you drink it through your pores.’
‘It’s burning a lot.’
‘The best ones always do. Drink up.’

He didn’t even make it through the first commercial break of My Kitchen Rules before he passed out for the night.

Isn't it nice having all of these little stories vying for your attention? Almost as nice as when your Instagram crush liked your photo yesterday even though it was 2 weeks old.

Home Alone

Home Alone