Rosamicula (rosamicula) wrote,

Auntie Oxidant's Problem Page

Further problems may be appended to the original post which features screened comments.

Dear Auntie Oxidant,

I have a most wonderful friend who forgets that I am not available on a Wednesday and who texts and tempts me with offers of luscious Chinese food and her fabulous company on those days. What do I do?


Confuddled of Covent Garden

Dear Confuddled

Are you, by any chance one of those dreadful polyglomerates? Perhaps one who posts up fortnightly schedules of their lives with two long pre-arranged 'date' nights and a whole host of nights strewn with the desperate tumbleweed of 'no evening plans'? If so you can't possibly expect your wonderful friend, who undoubtedly lives a life of elegant bohemian mayhem and sexual spontaneity, to remember when you've got a filofuck (a term soon to appear on a spellfecker near you). I'd have dinner with your friend anyway and just be late for your date. Break the stranglehold of the schedule!

Dear Auntie Oxidant,

I have to go to a christening in July. This is bad enough in itself... but at this particular one I will meet my partner's ex-wife, who hates me, and all of her family. Am totally dreading it! What to do?


Dear M.C.

There is only one way to cope with this situation. You MUST be thinner, younger-looking and better dressed than the unspeakable harridan your boyfriend used to be married to. I suspect that in your case this will not be difficult. You must also ensure that your partner is looking his very best, too. It wouldn't do to have her look at him and think he'd let himself go, so if he has grown An Unfortunate Moustache or anything similar he must get rid of it.

If the Evil Ex is gorgeous or just super-intimidating there is only one answer. Get brutally, riotously drunk. As long as you are drunk enough not to remember how awful the day was, it doesn't matter if everyone else remembers how awful you were.

Dear Auntie Oxidant

How best to delicately break it to one's mother that she (and not a cruel, cruel world) is the agent of her own demise? Bluntness seems a bit too much, but it's time for her to take responsibility for her own joys; I hope for her to be happy in this lifetime.

Yours, Concerned in California

Ah Poor Concerned,

The trouble with breaking this news to her is that she will simply substitute a specific cruel, cruel daughter as the agent of her demise instead of a generic cruel, cruel world. There is only one possibility for salvation for her and that does not lie in getting her to confront the lies, apathy and incompetence of the past. If she has spent her life determined to see herself the tragic victim of cruel circumstance, the only way to shake her out of it is to get her to imagine a future in which she assumes a sense of agency and becomes the active heroine who pluckily salvages her life into something successful despite the odds being stacked against her. It is extremely hard to get someone to accept this sort of paradigm shift, unless you can get a shrink, a priest or some other sort of soothsayer to collude with you. The problem is that you shouldn't have to do it - it is what she should have done for you. You might be better off just cutting your losses and regarding her, from as far a distance as possible, as an example of what not to be when you grow up; that is the only benefit that bad parenting affords you.

Dear Auntie Oxidant

I think my boyfriend might be a bit Aspie. He can't pick up on hints, never realizes when I am miserable (even if I am crying) and can't make conversation with my friends. I have described his behaviour to some of my online friends and they seem to think he has Aspergers.

Yours, Twilight Fan

Dear Twilight Fan

Your boyfriend is not 'a bit Aspie'. He's just a bloke. He can't pick up on 'hints' or tell when you are miserable because, as an adult, he has progressed beyond responding to passive aggression or sulking. He probably chooses not to talk to your friends because they are asinine bores.

As forgetting your online friends to diagnose him? If your cat was sick would you get a bunch of women who spend all their time online posting pictures of 'Edward the vegetarian vampire' dolls' they have knitted from their own pubic hair trimmings to diagnose him? No, I thought not.

Dear Auntie Oxidant,

Dear Auntie Oxidant

What should I do?


Dear M.W.

1. Keep calm and carry on.
2. Drink more.
3. Think more.
4. Write more.
5. Love more.
6. Forgive yourself. Everyone else will eventually, providing you teach them to. This maxim applies to almost all the points I have listed.

Dear Auntie Oxidant

I'm finding myself developing terrible violent urges with regards to some members of the Trauma Toilets. How do you suggest I work to overcome my violent idealisations before they spiral out of control and I break my beloved computer screen?

Yours, with blood and guts,

A. Nonymous.

Dear Ms Nonymous

I share your violent distaste for the half-witted nutjobbery that so often features on the pages of the Trauma Toilets. Are you 'triggered' by references to anything other than bikkits and kittens? Did you get an unrecognisable courgette in your Abel and Cole box last week and not use it - are you now terrified it will give you PCOS if you cook it without the aid of a SWAT team? Do you feel like you've been gang-violated because a doddery old gentleman penis-wielding oppressor has called you 'dearie' ? If you have answered 'no' to any of these questions then the Trauma Toilets is probably not for you. Except, of course... go on... admit it. It's exactly why you read it. It is the Bedlam of the internet. One goes there to point and laugh at the loonies. You should, however, ensure that you take the same precautions our illustrious ancestresses took when visiting Bedlam. Before you approach the TT, ingest copious quantities of gin, then hold a fragrant nosegay to your nostrils. If this doesn't work, then don't bash your keyboard in fury, instead creatively visualise enacting some violence on one of he more irritating members. Take, for instance, the one with the Celtic name, predilection for posting whining verse and sermonising about her own tiny carbon footprint whilst failing to realise that the hot air that pours from her mouth is a major threat to the ozone layer. Imagine tying her to a chair, taping up her gob with gaffer tape and then slowly stuffing a mooncup into each of her nostrils. This should do wonders for your blood pressure.
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