I met Betty Jo Cthulhu about a week ago. She walked into the bar with the haunted look of someone who either has a story to tell or who is going to end up drinking the night away. As the evening wore on, she would turn out to be both. She sat down next to me and just asked me to listen, so I did. This is her story.
I wasn’t even looking for a relationship when I went out that night two years ago. I just wanted a few drinks, maybe a dance or two. But there was this guy there that kept hitting on me and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Suddenly this other guy pops out of nowhere, literally out of thin air, and eats him. Just wolfed him down like a strawberry pop-tart. Of course it was disturbing and the liquor liscencing board had the place closed down for a few months, but a lady can’t help but be impressed by something like that. I asked him his name, but he just gave me a bunch of foreign sounding gobbledeegook that he warned me I shouldn’t try to pronounce. He told me to call him “Luke.”
We started seeing each other and eventually we fell in love. I wanted to see where he lived, but he said he had to find some book called the “Neopolitan” or something like that and recite some ancient arcane ritual for us to get there. I suppose every girl hears that excuse once or twice while they’re dating. So we always met at my apartment and let me tell you, what a mess he made of it. He was always leaving puddles of goo around. He called it ‘ichor.’ I just called it disgusting. I thought it might be the end of things until one day we were down in the village and came across the darlingest little shop which sold something called ‘Ichor-B-Gone.’ The shopkeeper had to laugh; he said we were the only people he had come across that wanted to buy it in fifty-five gallon drums. But let me tell you … this stuff; why they don’t sell it in infomercials is beyond me. Probably some sort of Federal Trade Commission ruling about the ingredients. I mean, aborted panda fetuses? Sure, but whoda thunk it would get your floors so sparkly clean. Who. Da. Thunk.
We decided to marry. It was a nice wedding, although not a lot of his friends came. Apparently they live in some sort of Long Island gated community as he said they were having problems unlocking the gate and crossing the bridge into our world. This seemed odd to me as even the Whitestone isn’t that busy on a Sunday morning. Every girl has a little trepidation on her wedding morning, but looking back on it there were actually a comparatively small number of casualties and a surprising number of survivors. The Whateley’s were there but they could have dressed better. And they ate too much cake. And smelt like a dead cow. Really … just don’t get me started on the Whateley’s. But I really should have suspected something was amiss when I asked him why his parents weren’t there and he said they would have had to rend the entire fabric of space/time to attend. Was this a lame excuse or what? It’s their son’s wedding. Surely they could have rent just a little just this one time.
Married life started out so sweet. I’d put little notes in his lunchbox every morning. He’d bring me home the heads of my enemies on a stick at night. It was such a magical time. And the sex. Whoo! I like my men a little rough but this guy was crazy! I won’t go into any detail; a girl does have to have her secrets. But ladies? Let me give you just one word to think about: pseudopods. You know what I mean. Yes you do. Yes! You do!
Things went downhill from there. I could never have any of my friends over without either them being eaten or having to take them to the mental institution at the end of the night. And the landscaping! I can’t tell you how many times we had to have the hedges replaced from guests falling into them from trying to escape through the upstairs window.
Having his friends over was even worse. Most of them you couldn’t even understand; they just sat in the corner saying “tekeli-li” to each other. And he’d just tell the same joke over and over making fun of his co-workers. He’d do this squeaky little nerdish voice and start mocking them saying “The horror! The horror!” over and over and over again. It was pathetic. But of course everyone would laugh but me. “The horror! The horror!” There are only so many times you can hear “The horror! The horror!” in a squeaky little nerdish voice before it gets to be real tiresome.
It was talking about having kids that finally hammered the nails into the coffin of our relationship. I just wanted to have one or two. He wouldn’t hear of it. He kept on and on about some old Army buddy of his called ‘Sog’ or ‘Yog’ or ‘Yossarian’ or whatever and how he’d had twins that ended up rather badly. But the final straw came when we were discussing it one evening and he used that age-old excuse about how we’d just be unleashing some nameless dread upon the world.
I know I shouldn’t have said it, but I was so frustrated I just blurted out “But we CAN name it! God knows I’ve come up with enough names for dread being married to you for the past year!”
He walked out later that night. I haven’t seen him since.
He’s written me that if I continue with the divorce proceedings that I will soon meet the formless waste. I assume that’s the legal firm that’s handling his side of the case, but they don’t seem to be listed in the yellow pages. In my heart, I know we’re probably better off apart. It’s like we live in two separate worlds. I live in the real world, and he lives in a world of happy fuzzy bunnies or something. But still, you can’t help but wonder if we can get back together; if maybe there is room for reconciliation after all.
I’d certainly accept it as a sign of good faith if he’d stop eating my attornies.