The Devil's Spawn

   Fuck you, you fucking fuck.
   Excuse me, I apologize, that statement needs some clarification, doesn't it? Allow me to drop some backstory on you.
   Once upon a time, I had this boyfriend. His name, shall we say, was Baartin Kotze. He was a blonde, anime-looking prick who- as it turns out- had a thing for touching underage boys. When his pet boy confronted him about said proclivity, he went apeshit and like any good Christian boy whose daddy would toss him summarily out on his ear if he found out, and had a complete personality meltdown. The inescapability of his own scaliness was simply too much for Baartin to bear, and his whole mind shut down like a Christmas light factory in July. He went from being my slightly creepy best friend (and boyfriend) to cutting out every last one of his friends and having the bible tattooed upon his ever more righteous arse. He also decided at precisely the same time to cut me off completely, acting as though I'd raped his mother with a wire shower-brush, going so far as to destroy my property and write me letters threatening to report my sorry behind to the police if I didn't stop all that polite asking for my stuff back.
   This was largely because I knew why he was suffering such a spectacular identity crisis, and could probably out him to the school he works at as a teacher (!), and god knows the best defence is a good offence. He never offered an official explanation as to why I was suddenly the anti-christ, though, and earlier this year, one of our mutual friends pulled much the same stunt without the ephebophilic tendencies to explain things away. Puzzled me somewhat, but I simply wrote it off as being Baartin's influence finally stretching so far as to poison the person we shall call Bertius. (I'm really good at this protecting the identity of the stupid and helpless, aren't I?) Bertius decided to sever all ties with me via text message savagely berating me in a spiritual tone, cleansing himself of me, which was even more puzzling than the action itself really. I wondered about this for a long time. I had dreams that ranged from shooting to befriending these two morons often, and today my dear friends I HAVE MY ANSWER.

   Bertius came to visit me. About two months ago, I got a letter from Baartin, explaining in rather douchebaggy style how commendably he forgives me, and how I can come to him any time if I feel like talking to someone about my hedonistic ways. Fuck you brother, I like me a good orgy every now an again. Bertius' letter followed in marginally less condescending tones, asking for the opportunity to come by and visit, which I jumped on hoping for either an explanation or a good cat fight. I'll usually take either, I'm not picky- when I worked at Video Den I used to volunteer to phone all the people with outstanding DVDs so someone would throw a tantrum at me. It was awesome. This particular visit was less salacious. He came over all placid-like, simply stating that at the time he decided fuck me, fuck me so very hard, he had been having a religious epiphany and had been told by Castiel to cut ties with a whole laundry list of bad influences. When I asked him what it was he reckoned I had done (especially since he had sent word through a friend to me that "I should know what it is"), he backed off and said he would tell me when the time was right.
   One visit and a Facebook friend request later, he was ready to open up. He had asked to come over tonight, and I graciously agreed, thinking maybe if he was allowed to come over today he'd come to my birthday party and bring gifts. I'm easy that way. I casually mentioned that I'm still fucking curious to know why I was branded the anathema twice by two friends, and the man told me. God, did not see this coming, better than anything I could have dreamt up on my own:

   I call up demons and put spells on people. Specifically, I put spells on Maartin. I mean Baartin- shit, what did I say? Apparently, during our 7 month dating tenure, I often said things like "Gee honey, tonight I feel like calling forth Beelzebub and his petty minions, shall I get out the blood sacrifice and the rubber sheets?" And then good boy Baartin would respond, much like a badly written character in an afterschool special on the dangers of befriending the Goth Crowd at school, "Oh no darling, I couldn't possibly feel comfortable with that- would you mind awfully if I waited in the other room whilst you slaughter the innocent to your dark underlords?" I also brought out what was only referred to as a mystery "board game" that did not sound like Monopoly at all, and now I practice my dark magic to cast spells upon Maaaaaaartin's person (where did that stutter come from?), and like the friend to all that's good that he is, he is taking it upon himself to tell this to all and sundry. Apparently, upon hearing of my wyrd practices from Maartin, Bertius (who am I kidding? name's Tertius) fell all over himself to believe this kind of fabulous and utter horse shite immediately, and thusly the ensuing text message in which he "takes back all {he} has ever given {me}, and returns all {I} have ever given to {him}."
   Since then, a core dedicated group of their fellow church-goers has been rigorously praying for my immortal soul, and Tertius has been spoken to by higher powers and told to come back to me AND SAVE ME. So he did. Or tried to. Of course, thinking about this now, I get it- Maartin is talking to this group at church, and he's having "emotional turmoil", (gay urges and whatnot) and it's so fucking obvious now. IT'S BECAUSE I'M BEWITCHING THE POOR MOTHERFUCKER. Everytime he has stubbed his toe- Loraine was there. Whenever the Barely Legal magazines gently sang his name from the unmentionable isle- Loraine was there. Whenever he found himself caught in the rain without even a single pina colada, haunted by the images of sweet young boy flesh- BAM. Loraine, motherfucker.
   Fair to say, my head asplode all over Tertius' nice button up shirt. You moron- what, if I could do spells you don't think my every waking moment would be dedicated to magicking broccoli into pizza?! Use your head! This would be a goddamn goldmine, there'd simply be no time to fuck with old boyfriends and turn them gay for sport. So Tertius sits there, cool as you please, telling me how he's been spoken to by the Lord and told to save me, and I snap. I ask him to leave politely, then firmly, then rather loudly after that. He refuses. He must save the heathen girl from her own wickedness, and he shalt not move from the bed. Eventually I go get my dad and tell him to toss this little horseknuckle arsehole out on his ear since he refuses to leave, and only then does he realize I'm fucking serious. I believe I escorted him from the building swearing and shouting (or as Emma Thompson was heard to remark in an episode of Saturday Night Fry: "Shouting and blaming, blaming and shouting, blouting and shaming"), probably solidly reinforcing every single image he had of me as a pea-soup spewing question that begged the answer of a friendly weekday exorcism.
   But seriously- if you wanted to discredit me in the eyes of anyone who could be made light of your bad feelings, why go for something so bizarrely specific? Your audience is fairly narrow here, I'd imagine you'd get some sympathy mileage out of it but how wide is your pre-emptive net really? I've said this before and I'll say it again: if you're going to lie, lie better.

   I shall speak to you some more after the weekend, my lovelies. Birthday bash is coming up, and I need to test my resolve to the new one drink maximum. Ta xx