Given the direction he’s generally headed, ‘curtains!’ would probably be more apt when discussing this eX.  But since I promised you a rose garden (or something like that), let’s get through ‘em thorns…

If you remember, I’d just been seduced by Dorian Gray, Loki was licking cream off the sofa and The Queen was making sure the tokoloshe got a standing ovation. Sounds like it should be fun, right? Yeah, most of just about anything with DQ should have been something it was not. But ok, the good stuff…

{ P2} The Plus: pretty puerile, I admit, but he was good looking in the sleazy way blonde hair, blue eyes often are. I thought he was mature. I liked his dog (Loki). Doing even mundane things with The Queen was generally fun – he was charming, people fell under his spell left right and stage centre. Doors opened in alleyways to present secret vista’s you can’t begin to imagine. He liked good coffee, unusual music and knew how to dance. He could read and write (no, like proper stuff) which was a boon.

But. And good gods, with The Queen there was always a mighty big but lurking somewhere:

{ P3 } The Push: he is/was/will always (probably) be a promiscuous, alcoholic, drug dependent, brazenly bisexual narcissist. Though I didn’t quite know about the gay/bisexual gag til Round II. The Narci penny only really dropped then too. Regardless, it still made him a permanently stoned, drunken prick, but who’s counting right? Suffice to say, the man was a right royal doozy. And I – a dimwit.

The Drama Queen - going up in smoke

{ C3} The Crash: came on the broke back of a holiday weekend. Having gotten off to a rollicking start with a fight over groceries (he was pissed I’d paid, complaining that my credit card ‘controlled’ him – which, ludicrous though it sounds, is believable: DQ’s so deep a piece of plastic could well do him in, like kryptonite).

Adding to the general en route ire, I was then informed that his best friend (who’s 4 day drug fest wedding he’d asked me weeks prior to fly to Cape Town for) had told him he wasn’t allowed to bring ‘one of his floozies’ to the party. He might’ve thought to ask her before I whipped out the contentious plastic (a) and (b) WTF’s calling me a floozie?!!

{ aside }

Turns out, it takes one to know one – but that’s whole other kettle of very ironic fish…

*

But dear old DQ never was much of a thinker – let alone one for doing it ahead of time (made his head hurt, and not in a good way).

The supposed getaway aquaplaned steadily from bad to worse: he dinged his precious bakkie, my friends arrived, he surfed, didn’t eat, got grumpy and started sulking. At this inopportune moment, it dawns that part of me died in the stroke and ain’t coming back – which causes me to wander out onto the roof ledge, stare at the moon and begin some ceremonial weeping – followed by a spot of late night ocean swimming (cue REM’s Everybody Hurts) in some rather tempestuous waves. Admittedly, I was a little red wine drunk which certainly added to the fraught nature of what was becoming a very bad weekend by the sea.

Eventually I get over myself enough to ask His Royal Sulkiness what was up his nose which led directly to one of those hushed couple-on-the-verge-of-a-breakup talks (replete with guests milling inconveniently in the kitchen, pretending they can’t hear the drama going down next door). It came down to him deciding we were incompatible so he duly packed his bags and left. Having just fallen in love with the rotter, the crash was devastating. I cried so much anyone might’ve thought my brain had been replaced with salt water and went into a dazed fug where I ceased functioning like a sane person – not giving a flying f*ck about anything (including showing up on Sunday morning at the Waffle House in lacy pyjamas and just about nothing else – yeah, don’t say anything ok?) A day or so later I receive a lame assed explanation via email (oh! and if I tell you the word-for-word déjà vu I’ve had with another vinsane blue eyed blonde who can’t figure which way is up, you’d laugh):

I have been thinking about and feeling about you and I without pause since last weekend and now I am trying to put something down on (virtual) paper.  Somehow writing things down helps to ‘nail’ them down.

I don’t think that our problem exists within our behavioural patterns per say, but rather at a deeper level.  My reluctance is to allow myself to be cared for (not accepting any compliments, always argumentative, always say No first, etc).  So on one hand, while I am seeking out affection and attention, I am not really willing to commit or give of myself.  You, on the other hand, are pushing for a deeper and more meaningful partnership.

Further to this, I am not sure that our personalities are compatible as lovers.  Or, I am not sure that what we are together is what I want for the long term.  I tend to want more chaos, not more order in my life.  (I use ‘chaos’ and ‘order’ quite liberally)  To be asking you to change or by changing myself is counter-productive.

There is so much that I love and admire about you, most particularly your strength combined with a lyrical gentleness and I am in no doubt why I wanted to pursue you/us further.

Blah blah blah, whine whine bullshit bullshit “I-don’t-know-what’s-wrong-but-I’ve-commitment-issues-the-size-of-Russia-so-I’m-going-to-just-spin-some-sh*t-and-hope-it-sticks”. It was about as clear as mud. And yeah, label me boring Ms Order, the Queen certainly has site central on Chaos. And went all out to find himself some far-out swinging crazy after me. But that’s another story…

Before we hit our flat out tail spin, The Queen started exhibiting some interesting ape like qualities (climbing, as he did, a screw pineapple tree and harvesting a seed which would later return to haunt us both). You need to remember this arbitrary fact – it’s relevance will become apparent in Round II.

…

That, ladies and gents concludes Round I of Dating Drama with The Drama Queen. Curtains, please!