b3ta.com user Matoosh
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Oh dear, I really should update this a bit... I no longer dye my hair black, for a start. Thankfully.

So yes. I do normal people things like go to the pub, bop to music at friendlier-type clubs (ie not Oceana), and find Charlie Brooker a rather amusing chappy. I work in a tea shop, play the piano, and am rather fond of The Beatles and ELO.

I have a guitar somewhere, but I'm starting to think that I'm really never going to get around to writing that number one album. Alas.

Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» What's the hardest you've tried to get dumped?

Three years.
Before the nutcase mentioned in a previous QOTW (http://www.b3ta.com/questions/stalked/post119130 for the fun and hilarity) there was... well, I'll call her Becca. For that was her name.

It all started out innocently enough. I had just started college. A balmy September it was. My self-esteem and whatnot improving at a phenominal rate since a few years previous. I had started finally talking to people and leaving the house and jogging in the park... y'know, normal things. I was normal. Yes, I liked the label "normal".

I met Becca the following February. I'd occasionally glimpse her while walking home with mutual friends, talking and laughing, and being generally quite loveable and sweet. I developed a bit of a crush. But it wasn't until a trip to the cinema, that I finally got to have any sort of real conversation with her (me, being the sneaky bastard I am, insisted on being the one who bought the tickets; I made sure she was sitting next to me). We kept exchanging glances throughout the movie (Cold Mountain it was, not bad for a first.. er.. "date"), and she found it cute that found a lot of the film funny (if you ever get a chance to watch it, look out for the scene where a dove flies into a window).

Fastfoward to a week later, and she invites me over to a mutual friends house to help out with babysitting and to watch movies. 28 Days Later. Ah, yes, horror - you guessed it, que her jumping at every oppourtunity, usually landing in my lap, or huddling behind my shoulder. I, however, was pretty oblivious to this, simply because I'd never been an object of interest to women up until this point. It wasn't until she said, "I want to kiss you" at the end of the evening that I finally realised that, well... maybe something was going on here. I remember skipping part of the way home that night, giggling the whole time.

So that's how it started. Sweetly and innocently. I was excited. I'd never had a girlfriend before. She loved the same music, played the same instruments, watched the same movies, had the same pets, laughed at the same jokes.. Matoosh had scored.

Or so I thought.

As all things do, the problems creeped in so slowly I couldn't detect what was going on. She wants to come over, but I'm busy revising? One crying fit later and I felt terrible. How could I possibly refuse this poor girl? She has her way. Oh wait, she can't be bothered to go home? The next day too? The following weeks? Ever? Oh that's alright. It's only like I'm doing my exams, it's not as if suddenly having a female presence permanently in residence will do me any harm. And anyhow, if I say no, she cries. A lot. And screams sometimes. She should be the "priority" as the girlfriend, as she reminds me. Often.

Things were getting a tad tense. She would not leave. Ever. Every day she had to see me. At college, following me home in the evening, staying as late as possible, if not the whole night... taking up every waking moment of my day. And I shouldn't even bother trying to do other things while she was there - she could not stand being ignored. But if she was busy doing something? Well, I learnt my place. I didn't want to risk her losing her tempter, again.

And this is not to mention the calls. Oh, yes, the calls. Sometimes I'd put my phone on silent. Sometimes it'd be upstairs where I couldn't hear it. Sometimes I'd be cycling on a main road. But no, this was no excuse. If i didn't pick up instantly, she's call. And call. And then text. And call. I'd usually end up with about 30 or so missed calls, and a dozen texts. "Where are you? Why aren't you picking up? Are you alive? Have you been in an accident? ARE YOU OKAY? MATOOSH? MATOOSH ARE YOU OKAY?" They became increasingly hysterical as time went on. She'd be in fits of crying most voicemails.

And all through this I was thinking, "what the hell have i got myself into? Please, let this end... this is madness... please, just a day to myself, an hour even... just..."

Of course, you say, you should have just dumped her! Kicked her to the curb! Taken out the TRASH. Well, Matoosh argues: I did. I tried. God I tried. But as time went on she wore me down, wore down my resistance, wore down my spirit. I became depressed; i developed anorexia; my running became an obsession as it was the only time i was away from her. This was all during my exams, too. You try splitting up with someone when in that condition.

By the 2nd year of college I was in dire straights. I weighd under 9 stone, at 6 feet tall. I would go to bed at 8pm, completely exhausted - too tired to even speak some nights, though she thought I was being rude by not conversing with her when she came to bed. I'd sleep fitfully, before getting up at 6am to go running, just to get away, just to escape her for those few precious minutes... and, on top of it, i had been roped into a 2 week holiday with her, in celebration of finishing our exams.

Then came crunch time: the unknown illness. One morning my run feels a bit weird; my feet are a tad tingly... but i ignore it. Next day my muscles are pretty damn tight, tingling getting worse, I'm feeling weak... to cut it short: a week later I was lying in a hospital bed, virtually paralysed, hooked up to various tubes, being told there was a chance my lungs would stop working and I'd have to be put on a ventilator. There's a chance I'll never walk again. There's even a slim chance I'll die. As well as the mental anguish, I was in constant physical pain - it felt like a metal rake being dragged down my exposed spine and nerves again, and again, and again... then Becca visits. Her first words? "But what about our holiday?"

Did I dump her? Did I say, then and there, it was over? To hell did I.

I come out of hospital 10 days later, and begin 2 months of physical rehabilitation. Becca visits me at home every day. I'm too weak to even go for my run, my one escape from her. And, inevitibly. I become completely dependent on her. I can't walk up a flight of stairs? She helps me. I can't cut up my own sandwich? She cuts it up. I can't put my socks on? Well, you get the idea...

About 6 months after leaving hospital, I've effectively "recovered" (as in, I could walk down the street unaided). By this point I'd been with her 2 years. My life was in turmoil. My uni plans were cancelled due to my illness - even though I did attempt the first term, it was just too much - so I come home and have to get a full time job. This was a saving grace: time away from Becca... and money! I have my own money! I can afford to buy my own things without having to live off the parents!.. but.. can you see where this is going? She would hint, quite heavily, that I buy her certain things. Books (by the end of it in the hundreds), food, cinema trips, drinks at the pub, meals out, meals in, tickets to see Lion King... she was a student, living away from home, it would be cruel not to treat her to thnigs - at least, that's what she told me. By this point bulimia has kicked in and my depression has me sometimes confined to bed. She's completely aware of this, completely aware that I now can no longer say no. She takes advantage of it. She saps me for every penny. Even when I eventually have to quit my job due to my low moods, living on income support, she keeps leeching, keeps spending every waking moment with me, taking me shopping...

3 years with her now. I start to attend therapy. My moods improve, my food stabilises, I start saying no. She, because of this, starts becoming angry, lashing out at me, occasionally employing physical violence against me. Bruises are left, emotional as well as physical, but I just about hold strong. I say no. I keep saying no. Something deep down in there wants to escape, and it knows the only way is: no. No no, fucking no.

She eventually starts seeing more of her ex-boyfriend, the one before me. Things start happening between them. I'm overjoyed, but at the same time it destroys me - I was still wholly dependent on this woman, despite the pain she had inflicted. One final argument over the phone and she hangs up, pushing me to the edge. I end up in hospital again (guess why for extra points), not sure what's going to happen to me. She turns up, "I don't want to be with you any more, I can't see you again." and leaves. Leaves me on a hospital bed, dizzy, blood pressure crashing as the doctor's try and decide what to do with my test results. She abandons me.

At the time, sheer horror. I was devastated. Now? Greatest fucking day of my life.

I've moved on now (mostly). My various problems are still present, but massively reduced. Still not back at uni, but working on it. I've had girlfriends since, the one directly after was a complete disaster, but the last one... she reaffirmed my faith in people. We broke up a couple of months ago (we're still great friends) - the wounds inflicted by Becca left it difficult for me to commit to anything serious... I become easily stressed if I feel my privacy - so important to me now - being intruded on by another person. Even slightly. I can't let any one in, no one is allowed that close. Not yet.

But y'know what the worst bit was? The absolutely most terrible part of the whole experience with the evil she-devil? Not once, not ONCE, did we have sex. All that for three bloody years, and I don't get any. NOT. ONCE.

Bloody catholics.
(Mon 9th Jun 2008, 0:01, More)

» Doctors, Nurses, Dentists and Hospitals

Despite it's flaws, it's controversies, it's waiting lists, it's mistakes, it's occasionally news-grabbing failings, the NHS is the one thing that we should be unceasingly proud of as a nation.

Sod any one who says otherwise.
(Thu 11th Mar 2010, 18:20, More)

» Stalked

Desperation is a terrible thing
Righto, so, let's get this over with.


I had just broken up with my girlfriend of 2 and a half years. It was a relationship I was ultimately glad to get out of, but at the time I was left me emotionally vunerable (my depression and bulimia didn't help), lonely, and desperate. As you can imagine, my standards had been lowered. I would have humped a dead horse if it meant one night less alone. So, when a pervious aquaintance from school walked into my work, I actually acknowledged her existance, as opposed to my pretend-not-to-remember-them act I usually use on people I knew in school. We had a short chat, she paid for her goods, and left.

I come in the next day to find that she had returned later in the day, after I had finished my shift, and left her number with one of the other staff. Brill, thinks I, but as not to seem too desperate, I decide to leave it a few days before I text/call her.

Fortunately (or so I thought at the time), I didn't need to worry about not seeming too desperate - she returned that second day day (once more missing me by minutes), and leaves her number again, worried she might have gotten it wrong the first time around, because I had failed to text her. Faint warning bells should have sounded when she returned a 3rd time after that, again to make sure she had left her number correctly, as I still hadn't texted her.

They did not sound, however. Not even the slightest tinkling - like I said, I was far too desperate. I eventually texted her on the 3rd day. We meet up in a pub, both accompanied by mutual friends. After a couple of hours, and a few too many drinks on my part, she frankly asks, "So, want to be my boyfriend then?". Me, being slightly drunk, say, "sure, why not?", and she proceeds to "kiss" me with cigarette-tainted breathe, slimey tongue, and slightly black front teeth. And they say romance is dead.

At the end of the evening - bordering on leglessness - I offer to walk her home. "It's not that far!", says she. It takes 3 hours. But what was more worrying was the conversation we had along the way. It started off innocent enough. So what have you been doing? Do you still live at home? Stil see many people from school? Etc, etc, etc. She reveals she works at a nursery, which allows her to bring up the subject of how much she loves her kids, what she'd want to call her own kids, and whether I wanted to have kids in the future, and whether I wanted to have them with her... Being the drunken fool I am, I just agreed and nodded and smiled. My mind was more preoccupied with getting some, and if I had to pander to this girl's want of commitment, so be it.

So we get to her's, engage in some fumbling, only for her parents to start moving around upstairs (she had jumped me on the living room sofa), and for me to skeedaddle as quickly as my bony legs could carry me. Thank God, too - let's just say this girl was a tad... inept.

Did I also mention she had been in a fire as a child? Hence the damaged teeth, and the slight scarring. It was slightly off-putting, let's say. Didn't exactly help mini-matoosh come out of hiding and stand to attention. Furthermore, could this traumatic experience of her's account for what happened in the following fortnight? Some sort of left over emotional scar? Some deep mental damage left untreated?... No. She had no excuses. She was, simply, batshit insane.

Over the following week she'd be at my house after she finished work. Every day. "I have stuff to do, I'm sorry, can I see you tomorrow?" I'd plead. "I'll just stay for a cup of tea and then be off!", she'd reply, and I'd take her at the value of her word. This 'cup of tea' would usually end up lasting for 3 or 4 hours, with her throwing a tantrum and crying when I finally asked her to leave. Sometimes she'd persuade (see: guilt) me into accompanying her home (a 2-hour-round bus trip). Matters were made worse by this girls borderline nymphomania. She was constantly in need of sex, which, usually, would be a man's dream. But no. In this case it wasn't. As I stated, she was... "inept". Untalented. Rubbish. Furthermore, in order to be "prepared" for the act, she would demand about 10-15 minutes of tongue-time from me. She had hygiene issues. I reguarly felt like vomiting. I few times I almost did. But being the depressive, low-self-esteem, pushover I am, I put up with this.

Yet, 7 days later, even I, an incredibly submissive, non-complaining type, willing to put up with all sorts of shite, snapped.
"This isn't working out," said I, "I'm sorry. It's not you - it's me. I'm too ill at the minute to be with any one. My depression simply won't allow it."
Obviously I padded it out a little more than this, but you get the jist. I did it with as much sympathy and sensitivity as I could. I hugged her, held her hands, etc, while telling her, effectively, that it was over. And what did she do? She climbed out of my window and onto the roof of my house, threatening to jump. She said she loved me, more than any one she had ever loved in her entire life. She could not live without me.

Oh christ, what have I got myself into, think I?

I eventually coax her back in, mainly by agreeing that I'll give it a week's thought. And, I genuinely did, weighing up all the pros and cons. She really did not help her case, however. 20+ missed calls, multiple texts, coming over after work, and continually knocking on the door even when I pretended not to be in, staying way passed her welcome if I ever did let her in, giving me presents (a belt, Beatles album, a disney stuffed toy (I fucking hate disney, ffs)), etc, etc, etc. Thus, on a Friday, I once more tell her, "I'm sorry, I'm sticking with my decision." She proceeds to throw a tantrum, bangs her head on the floor for half-an-hour. I eventually have to escape, and have my Mum - being a caring female person - go up and talk to her. After another hour or so, she's calmed down, and gets her parents to pick her up.

The next day, Saturday, she miss-calls me dozens of times. Leaves messages. Insists she has stuff she left at mine to pick up. I eventually reply, telling her that she's scaring me. She continues. I again eventually reply, telling her to have no more contact with me - by this point I was shaking violently, sitting in a cupboard. Yet, shockingly (or not-very-shockingly, given what we've established so far) she still comes over. She knocks on the door for an hour, until I eventually open it. She asks to come in, I refuse, and just shove the items she left at my house into her hands, and slam the door. After another five minutes of knocking, her parents call her back into the car, and she leaves. The rest of the day is spent ignoring my phone, ignoring the further dozens of texts and calls. She tries knocking again in the evening, I ignore it, she eventually leaves.

Is it over, I think? Is it.. finally over? Silly, silly me.

The next day, Sunday, 11am. I'm asleep in my room, having come down with a terrible cold, probably due to stress. Depression acting up. Can't keep my food down. She knocks on the door, my mum answers and, being aware of the situation, politely talks to her, telling her that I'm too ill to see her any more, and that it would be best for all party's concerned if she just left me be for a few weeks, and then maybe me and her could reestablish contact on a friends-only-level. She agrees and leaves.

Or at least that's what my Mum thinks.

The girl must have been waiting around the corner, for, 2 hours later, my mum leaves the house, off to do some shopping. Within minutes, the girl is back at the door, hammering away. I was not aware of her earlier visit, and so go to open it. I see her through the frosted glass. I scream, fall back, get up, and stumble into the dining room, out of sight. The girl proceeds to knock, unstopping, for an hour. I think I'm going mad. My lodger at the time eventually comes downstairs and asks wtf is going on. I explain. Me and her discuss various plans, but a further half-hour later I decide the only possible action is to answer the door and tell her to, simply, fuck off out of my life.

So, I go to the door. I open it a crack. Fast as lightning, she has her foot in the door, so I can't close it. She begs to come in, begs for me to reconsider, to take her back. Please, she begs, please. I refuse, I use all my strength to stop her pushing open the door. But her foot won't move! I can't close the effing door!
"PLEASE, LET ME IN" she wails. An idea occurs. "Okay," says I, "I'll let you in, but the chain is on, I can't get it off if you don't move your foot."
"Oh.." she sounds confused, as she can't see a chain on, but would the love of her life really lie to her? No, she thinks, he wouldn't. So she takes her foot away. Problem is, she's still too close to the door.
"Take a step back," says I, and she does. Still too close.
"And another," and she does. Suddenly it dawns on her.
"You're not going to close the door on me? Are you? ARE YOU? DON'T CLO-" and I slam it, hard, just as she attempts to barrell it open. She's struck in the face. The knocking begins again. Another half-an-hour of knocking. She screams through the letter box. She wails. Cries. Screams more. Beats on the door. Tries to break the glass. I sit in the dining room, shaking.

Eventually mum returns, finds this wreck at the door. Talks to her calmly, like a wild animal - I hear it all. After 5 minutes my mum comes in, using her key, and explains she's taken the monster to the bus stop. I breathe a sigh of a relief, Thank God for th-.. *knock*. No! Wait. She's back. Sod. I hide in the cupboard, shaking so violently I can barely stand. My mum goes to the door, and in no uncertain terms threatens her with police intervention. This seems to work, as if she has a criminal record, she'd be fired from her current job.

And she leaves. Finally.

And that was almost the end of it. Had a few texts from her over the next few weeks. All I ignored, and they petered out. I haven't heard from her in about half a year - although she still asks about me. A friend of mine who attended the same school was unfortunate enough to bump into her in a local pub.
"How's Matoosh?" she asked, "where's he working now? Has he got a different mobile number? Do you have it?" My friend, to his credit, downed his pint, made his excuses, and left.

Despite the good many months I've had to recover, I still shake. I still shake when I hear someone knock on the door. Especially if it's the girl's signature 3 successive knocks.

We have a real chain on the door now. It's locked every night.


Length? It shrivels at the thought.

Edit: And, just to reiterate one point from the story: this girl works with CHILDREN. She has a collection of picutres of all of them, on her mobile, printed out to keep in her wallet, on the walls of her room... I fear for their futures.
(Wed 6th Feb 2008, 18:49, More)

» Call Centres

Poetic licence

I once worked in the 'consumer relations' dept (ie complaints factory) for a rather large company that made a rather well-known carpet/clothes stain remover - think pink! Unfortunately, the marketing department didn't do us many favours by over-emphasizing and occasionally exaggerating the claims of said product's stain removing ability.

One customer especially took issue with an advert we had running at the time: Generic Pretty Woman dipped a stained garment into a see-through glass tank filled with water mixed with our stain treatment product, in order to demonstrate it's efficacy. The customer complained that our product was nothing more than a 'tub of crap', and went onto inquire whether any fish were living in the tank, and if we had taken suitable measures to rehome them before the filming of the ad (he was being blatantly sarcastic, but we had to treat all questions as serious). I sent the usual standard responses for how we didn't harm/test on animals, and asked for more details about what sort of stain he was trying to remove etc. Within the hour I received the following reply...

I was pleased to hear that the fish were not harmed
distressed of otherwise alarmed,
And sadly the same could be said about the clothes
for the stains are still very much attached to those.

Before I put them in the water
I read the instructions like I ought'a
I done as it said to do on the side of the tub
before I went off to have a bit of grub.

But twelve hours later, this morning in fact
with the stains still there I changed tact
I boiled washed the items in the machine
by now screaming things somewhat obscene

What the stains are, I shall never know
Tea, coffee, or something alien like cocoa
And while I know not what caused this blemish
I do know I can't shift it with your soppy promise

All I need now is my four quid back
for I have given you products the proverbial sack
But I warn you now not to clean it up with your stuff
Because you'll find it's just not good enough...

Four quid please.

Least to say, this poem was printed out and stuck to one of the walls, where I think it still remains to this day.
(Tue 8th Sep 2009, 11:56, More)

» Guilty Pleasures, part 2

If I wake up in the middle of the night
I'll thrash around a bit and make "naaagghh" noises. That way my girlfriend will wake up, think I'm having a bad dream, and snuggle me until I settle down.

I'm such a pathetic man :O)
(Mon 17th Mar 2008, 20:53, More)
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