It’s not me, it’s you. It’s not you, it’s me. Potayto, Potato, Tomayto, Tomato, Let’s call the whole thing off. The break up is one of those things that unfortunately occur in life on a regular basis. How we deal with them and how we deliver the news form part of the complexities of starting the next stage of our lives. Let’s face it, the break up is a process predetermined by many focus areas – “When do I do it?” “How do I do it?” “Am I 100% sure I want to do this?” “What should I wear?” “What impression do I want to leave?” “Do I stay in contact?”
Humans have done this for years and you would think that the art would have been perfected by now, WRONG! In order to understand a break up we must understand relationships from conception to termination. Is there such a thing as a perfect break up? Is there some perfect recipe that eludes the human race that could leave both parties smiling? FUCK, NO!
So, my alarm has just gone off. It’s a special day today, I have to clean the house from head to toe and do all the domestic work. What’s so special about that you say? Well, my girlfriend has been away for a whole week, meaning my place is untidy. Scratch that – it’s a motherfucking tip. There are beer bottles everywhere. Dirty clothes have taken the place of the carpet. The toilet is full of skid marks. There is a puke stain in the middle of the room – the size of a small island. These are the obvious things.
Then there are the small things I have to make a mental note of taking care of, to make this homecoming complete. The first is the small matter of clearing my internet history which is littered with filth (can’t have that). Oh and then there are the jizz stains on the bed sheets as a result of aforementioned adventures. The shirt with lipstick on the collar (from a night at a strip club) must be soaked in bleach to remove all evidence of perfume along with the offending red stain. Mobile phone must be cleared of phone calls made to certain female friends that my other half doesn’t know exist.
Now I’m in panic mode as I’m starting to think, “Is that it? It all seems too easy”. Ah of course there’s one more thing, the fucking stench of cigarette smoke! “Shit!!” As a non-smoker Samantha hates the smell of the stuff. There is also the small matter of her thinking that I quit. Brain kicks into gear, “I can blame it on Carl” Nope, can’t do that, Samantha hates people coming round if she hasn’t prepared the house herself. She’s so house proud she once tried to tape the remotes in a way which would mean nobody could see them, naturally the consequences were disastrous as the TV couldn’t see them either.
The world that I inhabit with my beloved in this house lives by one rule. Her rules, of course. If a thing is out of place the accusations of an affair start, resulting in an explanation regarding why the chair is now at a funny angle. I couldn’t have possibly chosen to sit on it. Oh no… I have my special chair for that, the others are purely decorative. Another one of my queen’s rules is that once the toilet roll is 4/6ths, YES FUCKING 4/6ths used, then a spare one should be ready placed next to it and not before. I’ve now got that down to an art.
I finally get up and go about my chores with the dedication of a stalker and the precision of a serial killer. I am rushing around like a rapist transforming what looks like a bunker in Fallujah into Mrs Doubtfire’s wet dream. You could lick my toilet bowl by the time I’m done with it and you would quite happily eat your food off my floor (just in case it crossed your mind to). If your baby was on my table your disinfectant wipes would be obsolete. I’m a fucking legend and I have once again succeeded in polishing a turd and finding the gold nugget that lurks underneath.
Next on the list, grooming. I haven’t seen the lady in some time so I have to make an effort, but what to wear that is sure to get her in the mood? After going through the closet for what seems like a lifetime I settle on an outfit. Navy blue V neck jumper (hides the belly) and beige slim chinos. Excellent! But there’s only one fucking problem! The chinos are wet! Yes ladies and gents it has been in the wash and still needs drying out. Unfortunately Samantha took her hair dryer with her so I can’t (secretly) use them to dry my trousers. Plan B, “I know I’ll iron them dry” So that only takes ooh… 45 minutes and they look a slightly different colour but they’re dry. YES!
Showered with that special occasion shower gel, shaved my man garden, as well as the happy highway on my stomach. Face is smooth and hair is also smooth (like to keep it bald). I have sprayed my jumper with an insane amount of perfume and hung it out on the sofa, so when I see the queen I won’t smell like I’ve just covered myself in the stuff – neither will it smell like it’s days old. The smell will linger in the car on the way home, so that when she gets home she’ll want to rip my clothes off. Preparation is key, my friend.
After trying on the outfit I look at the mirror and say, “Mark you are a handsome man”
So sorry, I should have said from the beginning: my name is Mark – well, my full name is Mark Mutton and I am the long suffering victim of an unfortunate name. I work in Sales, mostly over the phone and let me tell you it is a very fascinating world in my office, more of which later. Anyway, I digress. I am ‘smedium’. I once was a small man, but unfortunately the years of comfortable life with Queen Bee have made me a little softer in places. I once had a six pack which is now hidden beneath a few more layers. I am still in denial about this and so wear reasonably fitted clothing that just about hides my mini gut.
I’m waiting at the airport terminal. My heart is racing with excitement as it has been a whole week since I have last seen Samantha. Oh I can’t wait to see her and hold her in my arms. I am also nursing a rather substantial erection (or so my ego tells me), which I can’t wait to show her. Oh the excitement. There are many reasons that I enjoy being inside this girl. She moans uncontrollably when I’m inside her. She makes me feel like a king. Every time we have done it, without fail I have made her climax in several octaves!
Finally the moment is here, she arrives and it’s not quite like I’ve built it up in my head. No running start for the hug, no lingering kiss, more like a polite peck on the mouth. “Hmmm maybe it’s jet lag.” Flowers get a slight acknowledgement. Again no panic from me. “She didn’t kiss me properly because she was conscious of her breath, that must be it”. These various thoughts race through my head. “Maybe the lingering perfume smell will soothe her senses before we go inside” We get in the car and she opens the fucking car window! During all of this we’ve hardly spoken. We finally make it home, she heads for the toilet “maybe she’s going to brush her teeth”. She emerges ten minutes later and blurts it out: “I can’t go through with the wedding”…It’s like a stake through my heart.
After hearing this shocking announcement my response is, “But we were supposed to get married in 4 weeks 5 days and 14 hours”. She retorts “It’s not me, it’s you”. While she says this I fail to notice the hanging snot drop that has made it’s way onto the middle of my jumper, until she glances at it. She goes on to tell me how incompatible we are and how this should come as no surprise to me seeing as there have been many occurrences that have led to this moment. Our entire relationships history flashes before my eyes and this is where our story really begins. In that short time I have gone through various scenarios – and fuck me, there have been lots. First, a little about me and how I came to be the manboy that I am today.
The ‘Break Up Recipe’ can be found on Amazon.co.uk and on Amazon.com
Munir Bello is a hausa-fulani author who was born in Nigeria and moved to England at the age of 10. He went to school in Sussex and then University in Essex. He currently lives alone in Maida Vale, London. His first book is called, “The Break Up Recipe” which has become an underground success and is continuously growing. He has plans to write further books on a variety of subjects.