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I Got Drunk And Revealed My Ugly Side To Mr Perfect

Ah, new relationships. So many farts to hold in, so little time.
Caiaimage/Paul Bradbury

Ah, new relationships. So many farts to hold in, so little time.

Everything is shiny and new. There is absolutely nothing annoying about this wonderful new person -- nothing at all. You think it's cute when he slurps his morning coffee. He think it's adorbs that you snore like a drunken hobo. You finally understand what it means to feel 'giddy' and gosh darnnit, if giddy isn't the best feeling ever, I don't know what is.

It had been two months since the first date with Mr Match and things were hunky dory. Families were being met and friends were definitely getting jealous of our overwhelming happiness. In short, life was perfect.

We had arranged a double date with friends, and I decided to be the responsible designated driver. Roughly an hour in, I scrapped that idea and ordered my third drink of *choccy milk*. Time flew by and the little love gang taxied our way to Mr Match's place for an evening swim.

By this point, I had consumed many different types of choccy milk. Fizzy choccy milk, frothy choccy milk, someone else's half finished choccy milk -- you name it, I drank it.

Enter: Genevieve. For the record, Genevieve is my newly named split personality. You know, the kind of alter ego who only appears once a significant amount of choccy milk has been consumed?

Mr Match had very cranky neighbours who, for some ridiculous reason, did not enjoy listening to the squeals and careless laughter of naked swimmers after 10pm. So, being the good neighbour that he is, Mr Match gently asked me to lower my voice while in the pool.

Fair enough, right? Genevieve disagreed.

In fact, Genevieve was insulted by Mr Match's request. How dare a privileged white man tell her to be quiet, more demure, less vocal. To subject herself to the social norms inflicted on her since birth? Yes, Genevieve was a fierce feminist who refused to bow down to orders from a man.

What followed the request can only be described as a 'catastrophic bitch storm'. Genevieve burst out of her dungeon like the she-devil she is. Where there was quiet, she was loud. Where there was kindness, she was mean. Where there was clothing, she was naked. (A blurred memory of nude, solo, sumo wrestling into a pool springs to mind.)

And so it began: the neighbours yelling at us to be quiet, waking up the entire household, open mouth ugly sobbing, yelling, threatening to leave the house and walk home six times, actually leaving the house twice in a huff before stumbling back, tail between legs (gravel really hurts her delicate feet). Eventually, Genevieve passed out, milk drunk and with mascara-streaked cheeks.

The next morning, I awoke with a very sick feeling. I had, in fact, been present for most of the evening (shoving popcorn into my mouth as I watched the events unfold) and unfortunately could remember just how much of a menace old Gen had been. The sick tummy was not just from the milk. I had been a real arsehole.

I knew it, Mr Match knew it and now all I had to do was ignore him until he apologised and then everything would be perfect again. Alas, this did not happen. I was absolutely mortified by my actions and Mr Match would not let up until I accepted responsibility and apologised. Which I did. Eventually. He promptly forgave me (Genevieve is still in the bad books) and proceeded to tease me for the next few hours.

There is a first for everything. The first date, the first kiss, the first time an ugly side of you is unleashed and they still want to stick around. It's definitely not the shiny, perfect 'first' that I was aiming for but I'll cross it off the list all the same. Now, someone get me a choccy milk, plz.

*Cannot confirm or deny that liquid consumed was choccy milk.


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