I think anyone who reads my blog will know that I swear. A lot. Sometimes I think to myself, ‘what would my nan think if she read this blog?’ and I remind myself that there are probably many other reasons I wouldn’t want Nan reading this – my swearing being quite far down on the list.
Having said that, I have been very good in censoring the title of this post, which references an event that took place six years ago when I was in university that I’ve called ‘cuntgate’. Sounds grim, I know. This happened at a relatively calm time in my life, where I hadn’t been with Manipulative Ex for nearly six months, I was dating The Ex and university was going relatively smoothly. I was in my first year of doing Media and English, and I was in generally a good place. Things with me and Manipulative Ex were pretty frosty, given how I broke up with him but there were times when things were alright, so much so that he sat at the same table as us in class. It was only a month before when we were on the phone to each other because of a thoroughly depressing Valentine’s Day – The Ex had forgotten, and Manipulative Ex was trying to woo back the girlfriend he cheated on… she allegedly smashed up his dorm room, something I found funny – but I think he was hoping that I would eventually get bored of The Ex and go back to him. That was never going to happen.
That morning, we had a Creative Writing lecture. It was St. Patrick’s Day so everyone was in a good mood, and our lecturer talked us through messing around with poetry structure. We were tasked with writing something that went like this… ‘I don’t understand why… Especially when… But I do know…’. When it comes to poetry, I either write with humour or pain, although I have been guilty of writing pure unadulterated angst in the past – hasn’t every writer? So, I wrote something funny and when it was time to read it out I was very glad to get a few laughs. I noticed that Manipulative Ex had a face like thunder, and his new girlfriend looked very concerned at what he was writing. A few others read their pieces out, before he decided to step up.
I didn’t expect what happened next.
Manipulative Ex went into a poetic tirade, describing sharing a bed with me as ‘sleeping next to a hippo’ as well as mentioning my snoring, a few more digs at my weight, called me psychotic and that our relationship had been ‘a complete farce’ before ending it with ‘…but I do know that you’re a cunt.’ The room was silent. Everyone knew who his poem had been about – aside from my pal Tammy, who was confused as to why everyone looked so horrified – and I was in shock as he sat back down. Everything slowed down as our teacher laughed awkwardly and suggested that we all take a little break before the second half of the lecture. The rest of the class couldn’t get out of the room fast enough as I got out of my seat, my face burning from the humiliation. Tammy asked me, “I don’t get it, what was all that about?” I told her he’d written about me and the penny dropped for her. I looked around to see that Manipulative Ex had slithered out of the classroom – so had The Ex.
Shit, I thought, he’s going to kill him.
The Ex is a big guy, much bigger than small and skinny Manipulative Ex, and more importantly he’s not afraid to talk with his fists if need be. As soon as he’d left the room, I was sure The Ex would have chased after him. Tammy and I ran out and found The Ex pacing beside the vending machines, his fists clenched as he had his eye on Manipulative Ex hiding outside near the smoking shelter with his girlfriend and our Media lecturers. I tried to calm him down but he was furious.
We returned to our lecture and somehow, I managed to get through it without bursting in tears or hitting Manipulative Ex, and I also managed to stop The Ex from killing him. When we were finished, once again he slithered away pretty damn fast. I tried to laugh it off, mentioning it on Facebook and Twitter and joking with my classmates about it, but I was furious with him for doing that to me. This was one of the reasons why I had grown to hate him before we split up, he loved to show me up in front of people but this topped everything he had ever done before.
Thankfully, it was indeed St. Patrick’s Day and one of my friends in class had suggested we all go to the pub and get a little, ahem, ‘festive’. This was back when I could drink, before I was on medication of course. So a group of us got together and spent the evening getting legless while I told the story of ‘cuntgate’ over and over to whoever wanted the details. And of course I passed it off like it was funny but honestly I was kinda dying inside of shame. Not to mention the fact that Manipulative Ex was trying to deny that it was about me, but rather another ex of his.
Being brutally honest, I was the only fat, snoring, messed-up cunt that he ever dated.
Months later, he stopped to talk to me after a lecture when I was in university without The Ex and although at first he tried to say that it was a piece about all of his exes combined, before I called bullshit and he admitted it was about me. He wanted us to be friends. I told him to go fuck himself.
That my friends, was the story of ‘cuntgate‘. Happy St. Paddy’s day to you all! (I’m half-Irish on my dad’s side, just so you know…)