domingo, 27 de julio de 2008

MY BOYFRIEND FOR A RED MARBLE

Once, I had a boyfriend. He loved me very much and I love him very much. He was the perfect one. Intelligent, attentive,polite, loving, rich, positively thinking, hardworking, funny, supportive, handsome, creative, veeery nice... what else could I ask for? When I felt down, he cheered me up. When I didn’t know what to do, he helped me to chose the right direction. When I didn’t have money to pay my rent, he paid it for me and didn’t ask his money back. When I committed a crime or offense, he, who was a great lawyer, changed the escene of the crime and the proofs so that I could get away with it. Everyone trusted him. And everyone loved him. He did everything perfectly: in his job, in my bed, on the street, with the poor, with the old people and children, with his family and mine, with our friends, in the beach, in the discos and pubs (you can imagine how amazing he was on the dance floor!)... everywhere and with everyone he knew how to behave accordingly.
However, anything, and I mean ANYTHING, can’t be perfect for too long. Through the weeks, I found out that he had some little funny ways... or, let’s call a spade a spade: manias, disgusting and unbearable manias.

When he woke up, he used to go to the bathroom, look at himself in the mirrow and lick his reflected image with huge pleasure for five minutes.
- Why are you doing that? - I asked him once.
- I want to taste me. It’s a good way to start my day.

When we were in bed, just after an incredible session of wild, loving sex, he held himself tight for five minutes, with his eyes closed. He seemed to be in love with himself, rather than with me.
- Hey! I’m here! What are you doing? - I asked him once.
- I want to feel me. It’s a good way to start my day.
- But your day started 15 hours ago!
- You’re right, my darling, my working day started 15 hours ago. The time of the feeling, the love and the perfection in a more deep sense, has just started.

Everyday, he worked out for two hours. When he arrived home from the gym, he put his sweat in a jar and in the evening, while he was watching the sports, he took the jar, took the lid off, and smelt it deeply for five minutes.
- What are you doing?
- I want to smell me.
- That’s really disgusting!
- My sweat is part of me. If you don’t like it, you don’t like me. But I’m sure you love it,isn’t it?

When he help some lovely old lady to cross the road, or some kind old man to paint his fence, or when he looked after his little nephews and nieces, he pulled out one of their hairs, kept it and put it in a folder. And he had a room full of folders!
- This will remind me: You’re a great person, you help others.

The thing with the hair was sickly. He collected the remaining hairs in our bed after sex, or the hair I left in my comb and put them in an photo album, with the date and location.
- I love every inch of you, and I don’t want anything to be lost.

When he cut his nails, he put them in a big, pink box. He had loads of these pink boxes! He told me he had been collecting his own nails for years.
- You never know if you will need them again for anything.

I didn’t know what to do. He was so perfect! Except for those little things...
But there was a thing that I coulnd’t bear. I tried to convince him to stop doing it, but I couldn’t. I tried to convince myself that I wouldn’t find anyone better than him. A relationship needs tolerance, but I didn’t have enough of it with this. He left me because he thought I didn’t undersand him. I could stand their fetishim with the hear, even the thing with his sweat, but this was too much!! He collected the little ball of shit that he had between his toes. He put every single ball in a wonderful little box, those little box which are used to keep rings.
- Why? – I asked once.
- I don’t want anyone to use my dna to do strange genetic experiments.



One grey Monday morning, I met a man in the street. He told me he would give me ten millions pounds, if I gave him my boyfriend’s house’s keys.
- No way – I asked him.
- Ok. I buy you for ten millions pounds that handmade t-shirt you’re wearing. It’s handmade, right?
- Yes, it is. I designed it.
- It’s the most beautiful t-shirt I’ve ever seen in my life – he stared at me and I blused - and I think your creative work deserves that amount of money, although it may seem it isn’t enough. I hope it doesn’t offend you.
-Oh, no, not at all... I’m flattered...
- So...?
- Done.
- And... I change a red marble for your boyfriend.
- Done.


Now, I am rich. And I have a red marble.





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