One of my favorite bloggers is whining. Please give her your support. You know, once you stop cracking up!
I am splitting up with my significant other, father of my children, companion of 15 years. My world is shaken to its foundations. My children will turn into insolent, handbag stealing crackmonkeys. I will die alone, my face eaten off by my scrawny toothless dog (yeah she's going to GUM my face off. It's slower but she'll be very persistent). But you, in your wisdom, have decided that this isn't nearly enough. No, you must SHARE with me. Share things I have NO need to hear. Share details of your disturbing relationship issues, and worse, so much worse, your sex lives.
Why? Why in the name of all that is holy must you do this to me? How can knowing that my parents used to "fall into bed together" for years after they split up help? It CAN'T, thanks dad. This is worse than the time you got that really short dressing gown for Christmas and wore it until I thought I would go blind. Suddenly I am fourteen again, pinned to the spot with mortification as you tell me, in your special sensitive voice, that if we feel we "still need to make love, you should". UGH. NO. Quite honestly, the words "make love" should never cross a father's lips. They should be excised from your vocabulary in the delivery room, as your newborn is placed in your arms. This is total dereliction of your duty to view me as your tiny perfect pre-pubescent princess and to believe my children were conceived through the miraculous action of the holy spirit. Even though we are both atheists. I am horrified. Do you not remember how you once mentioned the Pill to me and I couldn't look you in the eye for six months?? I thought we had a deal. You talk about your job, I listen, we both get drunk then you shove a fifty pound note at me "for a taxi" and I take it, hating myself. It's worked fine for years? Why fuck around with it?
And you, stepfather! You with your vast brain and interest in Russian romantic literature, expressionist art, 20th century poetry and the philosophy of grief! WHY must you of all people choose this moment to tell me about your continued identity as a "sexual being". Aaaaargh. Do I need to know that your girlfriend won't sleep with you? No! I need you to make vaguely comforting noises, talk to me using an extended metaphor I can't follow, and quote to me extensively from a long boring obscure poem where my eyeballs start to roll back into my skull by the fifth stanza. It has served you well in the past. Why now? Why me?
Let me beg you family. In the name of all that we are, and all that we have shared. Do NOT let it out. Keep it in. There's a reason why we British are repressed. Well, maybe there isn't a reason. But we are and we should stay that way. It's the British way dammit! This is how you raised me and it's the way it's supposed to be.
Now I am going away and when I come back you are going to talk to me about the weather. You may also talk about major sporting events, or the financial crisis. If you really must, you can give me single firm pat on the back. I want you all to act as if none of us even HAVE any genitals. We have the smooth plastic crotches of Barbie, or Action Man. Ok? Ok. Glad we sorted that out.