“But why did you get divorced?”

Apparently a year and a half after I moved out, people still feel the need to ask why my ex-spouse and I got divorced. So here goes:


We didn’t heed the warnings that Netrunner ends marriages.

We amassed more than the 84 bottles of nail polish legally permitted in a single household, and so were required to separate.

I’m a cylon. They found out.

Their girlfriend cut butter perpendicular to the end of the stick like an absolute barbarian.

They didn’t eat onions.

I didn’t eat shellfish.

I stole their favorite pair of boxers and refused to let them wear them anymore.

We had a profound disagreement over what constitutes proper board game storage.

I was emotionally devastated by envy of their perfect hair.

They were rude to my cat.

Their cat was rude to my cat.

I was taller than them, and I wore heels anyway like an absolute barbarian.

They felt I was not sufficiently enthralled by David Bowie’s bulge in Labyrinth.

I prefer showers. They prefer baths.

I kept finding their socks all over the apartment. Socks everywhere. Following me. Watching me. Fucking socks.

One time in 2009 they left the toilet seat up and I never really got over it.

One time I ate all the Reese’s cups in the house and they never really got over it.

They thought Matt Smith was a better Doctor than David Tennant.

We had far exceeded the number of years in a committed relationship that bisexuals are capable of, and could no longer afford to pay the fine for challenging stereotypes.

and most of all:

Sometimes their sleep-talking sounded an awful lot like trying to awaken Cthulhu to revel across the world.


 

Now that all the scandals and secrets are revealed, everyone can stop asking, right?