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?