We all do it. We all have that boyfriend/girlfriend in our past that, when we deign to think about them, we think, "Why the hell did I ever consider them as date-worthy material? Was I temporarily brain damaged? Was I being controlled by aliens?"
My first long-term boyfriend was possibly the worst person I
could have ever chosen to date.
I’m not saying he wasn’t a nice person – he was in fact the
opposite. He was quite self-centred, but on the whole wouldn’t harm a fly.
The reason he was so terrible a choice for me is because we
were so completely and utterly incompatible. I found him boring, irritating,
selfish, immature and he had no loyalty whatsoever.
We used to have conversations and I’d find, on later trying,
that I could not recall a single word he said. He was interested in History
(Yawn), Politics (Kill me) and creative writing (about history and politics. Dear GOD).
I, however, at the grand old age of 18/19 was interested in
design, reading (not about history or politics) and having fun.
Emotionally, I was far more mature than he was, despite his
being about 3 years older than I, and I was less inclined to live by everyone
else’s rules than he was. I would get frustrated with the fact that he would
never do anything without saying things like, “my Dad says it should be done
this way” or “My friends say I should do this”.
I was far more likely to take other people’s advice on board
and then choose the method I thought best, rather than what everyone else
thought best.
The Bad Choice Boyfriend was such a stickler for doing it
the way you are told and not straying from the instructions that we ended up
having the worst argument of my life over a pizza.
I had come home from work at Vision Express one evening,
knowing that the BCB was cooking for us, and when I got home he suggested
pizza. As I do have a bit of a penchant for pizza I happily agreed, and off he
popped to the shop over the road to grab a Chicago Town. Upon arrival back he
started reading the instructions, and I warned him to NOT put the pizza on the
top oven shelf, as I know that our oven got too hot and it would burn before it
cooked. I immediately stopped paying attention and went back to doing whatever
it was I was doing before he returned.
BCB joined me, but within 10 minutes I could smell burning.
“You need to check the pizza, something’s burning,” I warned.
“Nah, it’ll be something on the bottom of the oven,” he
replies, and remains where he is for a further 5 minutes, while I fidget and
panic about my food, but decide to remain where I am and not “take control” as
I was often accused of doing.
After checking on the pizza he exclaims, “The pizza is
burnt!” to which I replied, “Did you put it on the top shelf, or the middle
one?”
“The top one, like the instructions told me to.”
I pointed out that I had warned him not to put it on the top
shelf, and explained that I had told him that due to prior experience with our
oven – it was a fan oven and the instructions were for conventional ovens.
He decided to go back to the shop and purchase a new pizza.
Attempt two of cooking the pizza went down in exactly the
same way – BCB was not one for learning from his mistakes, and this time,
instead of calmly explaining WHY the pizza had burnt, as I had the first time,
I was pissed off. “How could you possibly manage to burn ONE pizza, let alone
TWO?!?” I screech at him, incensed. “It’s not fucking ROCKET SCIENCE, it’s a
FUCKING PIZZA!!!”
“Well, I’m SORRY. But I was just FOLLOWING THE INSTRUCTIONS
like you’re SUPPOSED TO!” he yells back.
“FINE, I’ll COOK THE BLOODY PIZZA THEN!” I continue to screech.
“NO, I’m QUITE capable of cooking a SHITTING PIZZA, thanks.”
He replies, and storms out, back to the shop to purchase their last mighty
meaty.
Christ knows what the shop owners thought about our pizza eating
habits.
BCB returns armed with the mighty meaty and shooting daggers
at me like it’s my fault that he’s a complete moron.
I have turned to my common state where I am so frustrated
and enraged by his incompetence that I am incapable of actually speaking to the
boy and therefore completely ignore his presence.
The pizza successfully makes it into the oven, this time he
assures me that it is NOT on the top shelf, so my anger wanes a little bit. I
know he’s not doing it on purpose, and he really can’t seem to help himself
when it comes to following instructions, so I relax a little and begin an
awkward attempt at reconciliation.
After about 10 minutes he goes into the kitchen, refusing my
offer to do it for him with irritation, and returns after fiddling about a bit
and deciding that all was well. He reassures me that the pizza is looking
healthy and will be ready to eat soon, rather smugly.
After five minutes he goes back to the oven, and suddenly
all I can hear from him is, “SHITTING BOLLOCKING BLOODY PIZZA!!!”
I turn on the sofa, almost in slow motion, and I see BCB
holding what looks like a black Frisbee in front of him. Apparently he had
decided that the pizza was not cooking fast enough on the middle shelf, and
during the brief “checking on the pizza” interval, had once again moved it onto
the top shelf, which explained his earlier smugness.
Naturally, I flipped out. I have never been so filled with
rage, before or since. All I wanted was a bloody pizza. I would have settled
for ANY pizza at this stage – even one with anchovies on it.
I was incapable of speech for about 60 seconds, and then
when I managed to make a sound it was a high pitched shrieking noise that could
only be heard by small dogs and rodents.
I think it was on that day that I realised I was dating
someone who was quite possibly mentally handicapped. There is no other
explanation as to how someone managed to burn a pizza -
Not once,
Not twice,
But THREE TIMES.
