How to leave a bad relationship

In a follow up to myreally bad dating stories, I want to talk about my really bad relationship. Every other relationship I've had, no matter how long or short-lived, no matter what the reasons for it ending, I can look back on with fondness, and still remember the best bits.With one exception.I was going to say that's probably because there were no best bits, but that's not entirely true. There was a good initial four weeks, followed by eight weeks of utter nightmare. It was because of that first few weeks that I hung in there, thinking her behaviour must be a blip, remembering how good she'd been, but the reality was the utter cunt was the real her, the nice act, was just that.Again, I'm going back years, to my pre-Game days. Thus, this was another internet meet up, and as per Olga, met off the same DatingDirect site.This time I didn't suggest ice skating, we met immediately after work for a coffee in a now shut popular cafe/bar not far from where I lived.She seemed nice, she was petite and blonde, attractive, and I admit I was surprised by how attractive she was for online dating. It was an enjoyable enough first meeting, no alarm bells. She did have to leave to go "meet a friend" and I didn't think anything of that. It wouldn't be until much later that I realised how many male friends/orbiters she had, and she was always "meeting a friend" to do some shit that didn't involve me.Very similar to Paul-ine (back in the day)I could kind of see, even in that first get-together though, that her favourite subject was herself. That was also the first time I got the ever-changing story of her breakup from her husband, who was (naturally) all the bad bastards, and had tried to "control" her apparently.This was a big thing, too. I was told in muted breath, head slightly shaking, looking off into the distance, "Don't ever try to control me." It was repeated a lot, too, throughout our short time together.That first time, though, didn't really impact me, despite the melodramatic delivery of the line, because as a decent, non-abusive sort of everyday chode, I thought, "Why would I?" As far as I was concerned, controlling someone meant acting like the dude out ofSleeping With The Enemy. That was hardly me, so I didn't think it'd be a point of contention.Little did I know.We parted around 7pm, and I was quite happy with our little date. She texted me soon after to say how much she'd enjoyed it and I was very glad to hear it. She suggested getting together again on the Saturday, and like the blue pill chump I was, I jumped at the chance and went totally overboard booking a table for two at what was the best, and most expensive, restaurant in town at that time.I wanted her to realise how good life with me would be and all that. Make her appreciate what a generous, non-controlling, uber-boyfriend I'd be.Again, it was a pleasant enough date. The restaurant was pretty empty, not much atmosphere for a Saturday night, but aside from that, I think we both enjoyed it.I thought I was pushing the boat out, taking her to this particular gaff, but like I've said previously, women just love not to be impressed, and kick any generosity down your throat should you attempt it.This was the first night I got treated to her tales of living abroad in Thailand, and how she'd had "servants" and lived the life of Reilly as an expat with her then husband - and thus this restaurant was as nothing to compared to what she was used to.This from the same woman who when the maître d had taken our coats, had attempted to hide the fact that the lining of her "leather" overcoat was all torn to fuck, and hanging off.But I sat and listened, and listened, and her favourite subject sure was herself, and how awesome she was. Aside from the high life she was accustomed to, she was also in great demand with men too, apparently. She relished in telling me all about her last half dozen or so dates, and of the relationships and friendships they'd spawned, and the mesmerising affect she'd had on some of these men. Including tear stained letters and willingness to accept being placed in perpetual beta-orbit, if only it could mean remaining in contact with her.A typical day in Paul-ine's imaginationHer name being Pauline (truth, no alias). Or Paul-ine as she pronounced it in her bad French accent, aping how some recent love-lorn French dude spoke her name. This was relayed in a short speech that once again reiterated the not-controlling-her theme, and to take her as you found her, which was completely fabulous, and she had that on good authority.Back then, I didn't realise that a woman trying to impress you is a good thing, that most of what they're saying is bullshit, and to just let it bounce off you; so not knowing any better I was buying it. And thus thought, as it was designed to do, feel I had a very special woman on my hands here. A much sought after socialite, used to only the very best.Who didn't want that taxi going anywhere near where she lived on the way back from that date. I thought that was her playing "safe," not being ready to reveal where she lived yet, rather than, say, needing a bit more time to work up a story as to why she was living at the shit end of town in an apartment befitting of her coat lining.I think she was a bit played-out after that date as well. Had worn herself out talking about herself, because she was very quiet in the taxi coming back. I thought we'd had a good date, but her behaviour at the end puzzled me a bit. Of course, I was worried this meant I'd failed this date "interview," and she was having second thoughts about me.The only person I think she was having second thoughts about, though, was her previous DatingDirect relationship, who of course, she'd told me about. Her version anyway.Pauline was actually older than me by about 18mths. She'd lied about her age in her dating profile, but when she'd said she liked RnB music, she definitely wasn't. For some reason, I took that to mean more Smokey Robinson than Snoop Dog. However, I got that completely ass about tit, and she was very much a chick with a thing for "gangsta" rap - and the dudes that go with it.Now, I have a penchant for Latin looking women, even Indian, I love that whole jet black hair, brown skin thing, so I'm not criticising someone for having a little jungle-fever... and this girl had the fever bad.The last dude had lived in London, shaved-headed, gym rat, and a security guard or some such at some five-star hotel down there (not one of the better known ones).She'd messaged him, because i) she had it bad for black dudes and ii) loved to moan about the hometown and really wanted to move to London. Or somewhere were her specialness would be more appreciated.The dude had flown up to Scotland to spend time with her too - first date, a long weekend at hers. And by all accounts, I think she made that trip worth the price of his airfare.And she'd went down to see him a couple of times. One of those times involved a stay over in the five-star - either free or on employee's rates I suspect. Because as he was in the process of shipping over family members from abroad that made his little flat somewhat cramped as a love nest. But he had taken her out to RnB clubs, and there was even a fight that had broken out in some venue that necessitated the music going off, and lights up, till it was all sorted out. "While I stomped about, not happy." Yes... you centre of attention; just hating that. I think she told me that story every fucking time I had to sit through another rendition of some rap song that had "suck a dick" as the main chorus. She loved to sing that one, giggling. Maybe I was meant to be titillated, but I just used to think, "Grow up!"Like if I did a pub karaoke of the Sex Pistols 'Frigging in the Rigging' or some other shit. Like, wow, I'm shocked. He's saying abadword!! That was Paul-ine, though.I got to know a lot about that London dude, because Paul-ine liked to talk about him every chance she got. One night she came over to mine for "help" with some spreadsheets she'd been asked to do at work, and of course I was glad to help format them and write some macros that she had no clue how to create, all to make her look good and prove my good boyfriend credentials.It was while we had my computer fired-up that she insisted we hop onto DatingDirect and check out the guy... Which I did. She took over, logged in, and lovingly ran the mouse pointer over his shaved head, telling me how great that was - having a bald head.She didn't like men with hair apparently. Not any where. Now, I'm no gorilla, but I have hair on my arms and legs (and head), and I wasn't shaving it off for anyone. I see some guys at the gym like that and just think they look like little boys. I'm a man, I have hair on my body, and that's that.This was one of my many minus points, though. Paul-ine had merrily told me how I was nothing like the other guys she'd dated, and in email, had said, and I quote, "I'm done with all the bad boys now."Yup. And like the blue pill chode I was, I thought this was a good thing. That she was telling me she'd had enough of being reamed out by Alpha cock and now was looking for a nice beta-boy to take her on. And I was eager to fill the position.Painful because it's trueShe had stories of her ex-husband beating up men who looked at her too long, of him chasing a guy in his car, all the way through town, and finally cornering the offender who'd cut him off, in a carpark before dragging him out of his car and beating him senseless over his bonnet. According to her. Again, she showed me pictures of the ex, and he didn't look like anything other than a regular guy. The London dude, now he looked like a brick shit house, but the ex-hubbie, he looked like a streak of piss to be honest. But she was just one of those sorts of women, that anything that was associated with her, was terrific, because she was terrific.Except for me. That association didn't rub off. I was definitely sub-par compared to the other (as she described them) thugs in her life. She never missed an opportunity to tell me either.I remember she decided to make me dinner. I had to go get everything for her to make it, but I was still getting a treat here. It was spaghetti bolognese, a favourite of mine, and I appreciated it... but it really was a half assed effort if I'm being honest. I provided the wine too. I had to to show suitable homage, though, because she proudly declared that, "I never cook for men!" She'd even told me in the event of a long term relationship, not to expect any cooking or cleaning from her, because she was no man's maid.I wasn't quite sure what the hell to say to that? It was a heads up, but it wasn't something I'd ever considered. I was capable of switching on a washing machine, so just as capable to put some chick's clothes in along with my own. I mean, it's hardly taking them down to the river to beat them on a rock. Likewise, I was used to making my own meals, making a bit more didn't seem too much of a stretch if I had to.But I wasn't royalty like Paul-ine, who'd grown up in an everyday family but had spent a few months abroad in Thailand and had "servants." Or a cleaning maid, who came in a couple of times a week, as servants are also known.She used to bang on about Thailand like she'd lived there for years, but it wasn't even a year. Like her living in Jakarta story - I finally got how long that was out of her, and it was a month! Jesus, that's not "living" somewhere, it's a holiday!I also found out the dude in London, had dumped her. Right after she'd come down for a Christmas/New Year jaunt. Sounded like he'd practically thrown her out by the end of it, and in coming to get to know her better, I'd say that was a good move.She really was a nasty, insufferable, little bitch.I was meant to stay over the night of the spaghetti bolognese but the night didn't start well when I used the wrong remote on her TV and it apparently cocked up the DVD/VCR/TV set up she had i.e. she just had to select the source feed, but for someone so technically retarded, and foul tempered, that set her off.I didn't understand it. It was a simple fix, but she was doing the nut! I thought she was joking, but I soon found out wrong! She had a nasty tongue on her, and cut me with it. Then she was throwing the remotes about, trying to get the picture back, which when she did, I was told to "leave it alone" like a kid and stay put till the (wonderful) meal was ready.During said meal, I spoke about a few venues in town I liked and she smirked a pitying smile, telling me her ex would never go anywhere like that. I stopped mid-fork full such was the slap in the face. Oh-fucking-really?! The thug bon viveur?! Please do tell me more.And she did. A little later we're through in the living room. She was banging on about some new gym gear she'd bought, and how great she looked in it, so I said, "Go put it on, let me see." She stopped dead and looked at me puzzled. "That's really weird. What a weird thing to ask." I didn't know how, I wasn't asking her to dress up as Little Beau Peep, but go try on and model her new gym outfit. I thought it'd appeal to her vanity, and as this was my first stay over, and assumed sex was on the cards, I thought I was on safe ground.Especially as she'd flashed her bra and tits at me the week before at mine. Pulled her top up to show me her new lingerie, exclaiming, "It's only you," so since that was unasked for, I thought the gym outfit thing was in the same, if not safer, ballpark."I'm sorry for dirtying your shoe"But alas, no. As was everything if I suggested it. Like the next killer. She had a few pictures of herself up on a sideboard, and when I say a few, I mean a lot, and they were all of her, none of family. Amongst them were ones from when she was younger, and a child. I asked if she had any more, a family album, as these things can be fun, and a laugh, and a good way to get to know someone.Unless it was me asking Paul-ine. Again I prompted a faux-shocked pause as I was told that was weird too. Why would I want to see pictures of her when she was a little girl?! Like... WTF?! That's not what I was asking! But before I could say anything she told me with great delight how some ex had been round at her parents and admired a photo of her when she was a little girl... and she'd given it to him and he kept it on his wall now - giggle, giggle.So, me saying get the photo album out where this gallery of self-love you keep on the sideboard came from is "weird," but some dude keeping a picture of you as a primary schoolgirl in pigtails on his wall is just fine?Oh, fuck off!I didn't stay that night. I think I left about 2am. Despite the wine, I felt okay, and I just felt so uncomfortable in that room with her. She was totally distracted too. I think she'd text'd or spoken to the London dude earlier that day, and that was all that was on her mind. She didn't try to convince me to stay, she was probably glad I left so she could contact him again.From there on in, things got even worse.I never saw Paul-ine at the weekend again. At the weekend she was always "going out with friends" and I was not invited. I would be allowed a Tuesday or maybe a Thursday night audience, but never a stay over; we never banged once or even came close to it the whole time I knew her."It" can take me to lunch if "it" is goodI did see her one Saturday afternoon, where I had the honour of taking her to lunch - if anyone else had been available or she had the money herself, I wouldn't have been. And that would've been okay with me.She picked me up, and she was pissed because her car had failed its MOT that morning. Not surprising, it was a piece of shit import left-hand-drive thing, that she seemed to think was sporty, but was as crappy as every other area of her life. So, she was in a foul mood to begin with. We end up in John Lewis because she's looking for a wedding gift for some fucking couple's wedding "we'd" been invited to, but she was just stomping around the store declaring, "I don't need this, I just don't need this!" Like I did?! I was running after her like a good little poodle trying to placate her and that started her bellowing, "You're always judging me! Don't judge me!"You. Are. A. Cunt. Consider yourself judged.But I was so beta I thought this was all normal, or at least part of a relationship.We ended up at lunch, at a suitably expensive outdoor restaurant, that I naturally paid for, and I had to hide her shoes from the couple who sat at the next table because she'd taken them off and they were Asda George brand... Like anyone gave a fuck.But I'd bought a pair of sunglasses that day, it was around the time of the secondMatrixfilm, and they were a pair of shades modelled on what one of the characters had worn. Cheap and cheerful and did the job on a sunny day anyway. And I did kind of like them.So, I'm sitting there, in the sun, and get out my shades, quite pleased with my new purchase, and jokingly say, "I look cool now," putting them on.Again, I got shot a look like she was wiping something off her shoe. She sneered at me and said, "You're not cool, but you'd like to be."Man, talk about being battered down. I felt the same sensation as being pushed full in the chest. Writing it has me right back there. She'd say things to me that could me put in a red-rage, the kind of which no woman before or since has ever done. Sometimes I'd have to walk out of her place and go for a tear up in my car to try and cool off. I'd never experienced anger-flashes like that, and that scared me.Looking back, I think what had also pissed her was she'd tried on a few pairs of those shades too, and I hadn't bought her a pair.You're not cool, but you'd like to beThings came to a head one Friday when I insisted on meeting up. We went out for a drink, and she sat staring off into space, playing with her hair most of the time. I spoke about my favourites films and music, and everything I liked was, "shit." Just as simple as that. Paul-ine was the arbiter of taste in this world, and if it wasn't RnB or starred Tyrese Gibson, it was "shit." She used to say it so snippy and dismissively too, like, how could you be such a Philestine to think other than she did? Her, that one time had read me a passage or article aloud, and mispronounced superlative and infamy. Yup, you can guess how Miss Cultured said them; super-lay-tive and in-famey.I was getting more and more steamed during that drink. I asked if she wanted me to stay over, not because I wanted to, but I wanted to see the reaction. "Not tonight. I'm tired." So I asked about the next night. "I'm going to a friend's party."Just like that. So, you're going out Saturday night, and you don't want me to come with you? I didn't say that, because it didn't need to be asked: she didn't want me to come with her.She dropped me off later, and I exited saying, "Right, well, that's just about it for me." Then she fucked off into the night.And she would've stayed fucked off and silent but for that wedding I mentioned above.After all that, as hard as it may be to believe, I was actually down, missing her, and blaming myself! Naturally, she'd turned back to the London guy as soon as we'd "split" (you have to be together to split, but we'll call it that) and when that didn't pan out either - because he'd had enough of her shit too, but at least got his fuck on out of it - she'd turned back to me.And like King Chode of Blue Pill, I was pleased to hear from her again! She text'd me, and I couldn't wait to phone her! We had one get-together to "try again" because she hadn't been as "attentive" as she could have been (LOL!) - and it was just the same eggshells I was walking on.I was supposed to take her out for a drive and afternoon out the following Sunday, and I'd got up, got the car all washed and polished up, and myself ready... and text'd her to no reply. All dressed up and nowhere to go, I went for a drive. An hour or so later, I got a text from her: "Sorry, can't, having lunch with a friend."I'd pulled over to read that and was back in a red-rage. We'd made plans and here I was blown off again! But I kept cool, and replied, "No worries. Some other time."But there was going to be no other time. Even for a thirsty blue piller, I had reached the limit of having the piss taken out of me.The wedding was that Saturday. As far as she was aware, I was still with the program, and going as her partner. I mean, I think I was the only guy she knew who owned a suit and knew which knives and forks to use, so what the hell, I could come buy her drinks all day before she fucked off somewhere else later that night.On the Thursday night, I wrote a long, butt hurt, vicious email eviscerating her. It started, "About the wedding on Saturday, sorry, can't, I'm having lunch with a friend." I really should've ended it with that one line, but I let rip! I let it all out... and then pressed "send." It was done.About 9:30am I got a text calling me all the nasty bastards, but while still a mixture of emotions, no one had deserved it more than Paul-ine, as she called herself. I calculated that leaving her high and dry for a wedding, at which she was expected to arrive with a partner named on the seating plan, would really hit her where it hurt. I hoped she would really feel that, being all on her tod for the wedding, and that empty place beside her at the table. There wouldn't be any emotion at me not being there, but hopefully one at being humiliated.I still hope, even all these years later.Or in other words, you're dumped, sweetheart!God, she was the biggest cunt I've ever met.Since Paul-ine, I've cut many women off who displayed any of her traits. Especially that "don't control me" thing which turned out to be not so much about "control" but "don't ask me where I was all weekend or why I didn't return any of your calls or messages!" That was controlling Paul-ine. That's the definition of controlling behaviour that I've discovered many women have.I have a lot to thank Paul-... fuck it, spell it properly - thank Pauline for. I really wish I'd met someone as fucked-up as her earlier in life. Still, better then than later, as she was a real education. It was trying to understand Pauline that led me to my first steps toward the light. I discovered a forum called Intellectual Whores, which was about ladder theory and the forum contained many, many stories from guys who'd dated a Pauline. It was a real eye opener.That forum is long gone now. Some of the tales were legendary. I never added my own, I've never typed it until now, and still more occurs to me as I retell it; there's more I could add but that's enough for now. Intellectual Whores referred to themselves as IWs, not betas or blue pill or chodes, it pre-dated all those now common terms. I learned a lot from that board, and it was wanting more knowledge, that led me into the seduction community.And I've got to say, that knowledge has saved me more than a few times.