Charlie Armstrong

I once broke up with a girl because...

I once broke up with a girl because...

It is very special having a girlfriend, particularly while at school. It gives you that level of class, and if chosen correctly, popularity that you may not have otherwise had. A few weeks prior to the commencement of the HSC I found myself in a relationship with a girl from the Catholic school next to mine.

Over several “dates” at my parents’ house consisting of watching ‘Bring It On’, the cheerleader movie starring Kirsten Dunst with more inconceivable plot holes than Super Mario Bros 2 on the Super Nintendo, and listening to CD’s I recently purchased, Fenix TX and Aaliyah, just to name two, I started to notice that something wasn’t quite right.

It was an exclusive party to celebrate the 18th of a person I spent more time urinating on the car of than talking to, that the issue came to the forefront of my mind, or my nostrils as it were.

A purist when it comes to snacks, my palette was used to the traditionals; cheese and onion chips, chilli kettle chips and anything crinkle cut. The scent my nostrils inhaled was foreign and, for lack of better word, ricey. The year was 2001 and Sakata Rice Crackers had just begun an aggressive advertising campaign, appearing throughout the Australian Open and other high exposure events and telecasts. I was never to have eaten a cracker at this stage and was repulsed by the thought of doing so.

As I was approached by the female in question, with an overly stuffed bra, the smell of the orient followed her in a cloud of smoke reminiscent of the smoke monster which was soon to arrive on the TV show Lost. As she opened her mouth to plant a kiss on my boy-like lips I felt as though I had consumed an entire packet of baked rice snacks.

That was the last face to face I had with said girlfriend. An ICQ message sent the night before our first HSC English exam was just a courtesy to ensure she realised the end had come. “Oh o”

I once broke up with a girl because...

In late 2007, Sean Kingston was all over the airwaves with his number one hit 'Beautiful Girls' and so it seems fitting that this story is set in one of the world's most beautiful cities. Firenze, Florence, the place where Jersey Shore was filmed, call it what you like but it is a place normally known for the blossoming of relationships, not the demise.

An unlikely union with an American college dorm was opening doors to a kind of local knowledge usually saved for Silvio Berlusconi, and our accents became a talking point of many a nights out. A trip to the Shot Cafe and a multi Euro round of boob shots had provided the social lubricant needed for discussion to progress beyond how shiny my shoulder length hair was and how it contrasted so nicely with my messy beard.

I soon left the bar and into a poorly lit alley so that I may relieve myself on an ancient road. Having done this and remember thinking that said urine was rather fluorescent I returned to the nameless American college student who was as unbalanced as an elephant on a high wire to my right. Unfortunately (for her) my balance was not quite right and I soon began to stumble to the road.

As my sturdy walking shoes slipped on an uneven piece of the cobbled road I began to feel the fall. Embraced in a hug I quickly shifted my body weight so that instead of being the fallen on top of I would become the object that fell. I grabbed her elbows and began to pivot, moving further and further from the fluorescent matter that stood only centimetres below. With a great thud, my body weight fell onto the smaller framed American college student, trapping her in a pool of my urine. I quickly rose to my feet, helping her up in a gentlemanly act that would soon be undone by my next act. As she started walking back to the bar I soon noticed the extraordinarily large wet stain covering 60% of her outfit. It would go on to be the last time I saw any part of her.

I once broke up with a girl because...

Couples sometimes share a song. It's a sign that there is harmony in the romance. Sometimes couples share several songs; the song they first kissed, dance or ground to, the song that was playing at Blush when their eyes first met and even rarer, the song that was playing on each others Myspace profile page.

Not all couples have songs. Sometimes a relationship doesn't last long enough for a couple to choose a song or sometimes one party attempts to hijack a song and rebrand it as a couples song.

A girlfriend, who we shall keep nameless, shared a lot of similar musical tastes to mine. Beyond musical tastes, the similarity in our tastes was rather scary, but this alone was not the reason to break up.

An evening out at Largo saw drinks flowing, business cards distributed and grinding being minded; at the time I was right into Bloc Party's debut album, particularly the song "This Modern Love". While driving in my white Hyundai Excel I am sure many people were witness to my off key melodic singing of said song. This particular girlfriend knew of my interest in this song and attempted to make the truest of true romantic gestures and approached the DJ to play the Bloc Party track.

As the first few bars of the song started to play, my jubilation was obvious to even the blind man in the corner but all of a sudden, the girlfriend exclaimed that she "managed to get our song on".

With that, I put down my vodka raspberry, threw one last business card into the crowd and entered the cold, unforgiving skies of the Beer Garden.

I once broke up with a girl because...

I've never claimed to be a lothario. I realise my looks may give the impression of someone who exudes confidence but sometimes looks may be deceiving. There was a self depreciating phase that occurred right before I discovered my true worth, and in the depths of this phase I found the Internet. Now before you go all e-harmony on me, this was an innocent Bebo search that resulted in a display pic that I found appealing. As soon as I had updated my own profile pic with something that was a cross between fun and handsome ruggedness, I casually commented on a photo or two.

Days past and comments increased in regularity, as did the fabled private message, which I believe was actually called something entirely different on Bebo. For those playing at home, Bebo was what Myspace currently is but at the time was nothing like what Myspace was.

Soon a meeting was arranged. With my steering wheel lock concealed safely by my side I set out for the forty minute drive north of my home until I reached the house of said person.

It was a beautifully clear summer evening and the Moon reflected ever so slightly against the windows of my Daewoo. Enough light to navigate through unknown territories but not enough to correctly identify a mugger, or in this instance, a person I hardly knew. At this point in my life I had refused to believe my eye sight was worsening and relied heavily on my below average eyesight. The above factors combined in such a fashion to produce an attractive, if not slightly out of focus female. Who said you can't believe everything you see on the Internet.

Just as the night turned to day, the Sun too spread its light out onto the world. As I went to extend a hand to the female I assumed I had just met, I was surprised to find that this was the same girl from before. Flashbacks of a Seinfeld episode crossed my mind and I realised I had acquainted myself with a Two-Face.

Immediately I regretted extending an invitation for a few weeks into the future but I soon realised the event the invitation was intended for would take place in the low-lit valleys of Niagara Park... no harm in a second date with the better of the two faces.

I once broke up with a girl because...

I’ll be the first to admit that some of the reasons outlined in this autobiography of affection are Tom Petty but it is a lot like an unhygienic all you can eat buffet. If the nuance continues to eat away at me, eventually I will feel sick to the stomach and spend copious amounts of time locked in a toilet stall – mainly to escape the pleasure of said girl’s acquaintance.

This particular girl was a co-worker at a pie shop and after cleaning out the pie oven one evening (not a euphemism) I told her that I was going to Newcastle later in the week for a drinking night with a friend. She told me she would meet me there with heaps of her friends but ultimately turned up alone; warning bells should have been ringing at this stage more furiously than Macho Man Randy Savage when he found out his rap career was less successful than K-Fed's.

After a night of intense Headfreeze drinking, Slackjammer ordering and Customs House wee vids, I found myself on a train back to Wyong. Aside from travelling to Wyong in the first place this was more strange because my car was safely parked at Newcastle in a known Red Light District.

An uncomfortable night sleeping on the worn out grey carpet of a typically old Wyong house later, I sat in the passenger seat of this girl's car as she proceeded to drive me back to my faithful steed.

Traveling North on the freeway we saw a clearance to the left and it was here that said girl announced that this was the area of land that her group go to “shout at angels”. Upon questioning this ridiculous notion she supplemented that it is simply a time of request and need whereby they find an open block of land and shout to the heavens for reward, riches and good health.

The remaining hour’s car trip was awkward but I did get a free slurpee.

I once broke up with a girl because...

Teflon coated frypans are the preferred choice of most Masterchef’s, My Kitchen Rules and Hell’s Kitchen enthusiasts, but is a Teflon coated forehead just as desirable.

A chance meeting at a housewarming party had briefly introduced me to this edition’s girl. All of three words were most likely said, two of those were probably Barcardi and Breezer. Less is more and those three words were enough to intrigue me into hurrying my brother’s photo development so that I could rummage pre-Facebook at her face and aesthetic appeal.

Liking what I had seen and reaffirming my Barcardi beliefs, I did some sleuthing and arranged a date. A date turned into a relationship and things seemed to be running smoother than a new pair of Asics Gel Kayanos on freshly cut Buffalo grass.

History has shown us that no one develops photographs anymore. The pre-digital nature of this story required yet another trip to Big W’s development lab, film in tow, so that I could relive some of the memories captured via the old red Kodak that had served so faithfully in the past.

Sitting in the driver seat of my Excel, I perused the images and immediately thought there was a mix up with the orders; I had been given a roll of photographs solely of the recent Solar Eclipse. Upon closer inspection though, it appeared as though the flash had managed to reflect itself against the forehead of the girl in every single photo, resulting in an off-putting, overtly shiny effect.

Not being shallow, this was of no concern to me and I continued to bask in my newfound happiness. As time continued I began to notice the shine had surged into power and was not confined simply to photographs.

Unlike a moth, I moved further and further away from the light.

It’s a shame; this whole issue could have been averted had my brother taken the initial photo in a poorly lit room.

I once broke up with a girl because....

Call it small town syndrome or just one’s preference to remain within their postcode but it was with much trepidation that I entered my car for what I thought would be the first of many long coastal drives.

The gentleman inside decided it would be chivalrous to pick up the girl from her house in a suburb I had frequented only once or twice before; for soccer or a trip to the beach, nothing at night time. Prior to departure I thought it would be a wise idea to expel some urine so I could drive with greater comfort. That done, I turned the engine and begun my multi postcode trek.

In times before TomTom’s or NavMan’s were the norm I had to rely heavily on the ‘local knowledge’ I so often bragged about, even though my knowledge of this area was as limited as my ability was to happily remain with a girl for more than a fortnight. More instinctive than actual knowledge, I navigated out of the valley and ascended into the coastal beachside town with a bad reputation for underage pregnancies, bogans and “Blood and Sand” styled tattoos.

There are many reasons one has to urinate, and upon reflection, excitement/nerves is close to the summit. A first date can quite quickly turn sour, especially if one’s first words are “can I use your toilet” – doubly so when I was unsure if this particular Peninsula based house would have a toilet. I quickly decided it would be a better idea to find a quiet street to pull over and urinate on. Having a penchant for public urination I immediately found a safe spot in an unknown town and wee’d.

With the first date under my belt we planned a second.

Becoming more familiar with the landscape I took left turns with increasing confidence and even managed to have my punk-pop playlist playing (#alliteration) at a volume louder than 9. Approximately fifteen minutes from my destination a sudden urge came over me quicker than a fifteen year old guy at a Blue Light Disco; I had to urinate. I found my safe haven and relieved myself and continued on to enjoy a second date. This same routine, albeit with louder music, happened three more times until I realised I was developing an unhealthy relationship; not with the girl but with the public urination outside the same Tyre shop. I packed a large empty bottle in my car and even discontinued liquids hours before departure but nothing quashed the feelings my bladder was sending me.

Small town syndrome or small bladder syndrome?

I once broke up with a girl because...

I hear what you're saying, "this is a ridiculous reason to break up with someone" but hear me out.

The girl in question was a sometimes girlfriend sometimes number in my Nokia. I bought her a personalised wrist band from Bali and then didn't speak to her a few months, I went to a 21st with her and then drank with the boys instead. That was the relationship in question for a lengthy time, until it seemed as though we'd try and do things proper.

At university at the time, it was with some delight I'd discuss her with my friends and mature age hangers on that used to flock to my story time sessions- such was my appeal.

Having told her name a few stories back I was shocked and impressed when a mate showed me a photo of her in the latest edition of FHM; a blokes magazine full of scantily clad women for the uneducated. At first, I thought it was quite the feat and then it dawned on me the type of people who read said magazine... They were carbon copies of this naughty university mate.

As our next date commenced I continued to think about all the deviant eyes that would have seen her... It all became too much and with that I filed my copy of the magazine away with the invite to the 21st and the Balinese wrist band that was never gifted; closing this chapter once and for all.

It always did concern me that the university friend pulled the magazine out of a plastic sleeve whenever he wanted to refer to it.

I once broke up with a girl because...

In around 2004 there was a time in the Seven Network's scheduling where they had perfected one night of television. They managed to have the perfect ensemble of television programmes on in the one evening. Every Thursday night from 7:30 onwards I would sit down to enjoy Scrubs, The Amazing Race and other shows which, in a time prior to the increased prevalence of television downloads, were a must watch.

The girl in question had very similar television viewing habits and our interests synced more than Justin and JC. In her wisdom she thought it would be a great idea to enjoy Thursday nights together. "We will both watch them anyway so why not watch together?”

After three weeks of watching Doctor John Dorian amongst idle chit chat and missing my chance to have my own inner monologue it was clear that this routine needed tweaking...

Thursday came around quicker than usual the following week. I raced across to the bad side of the tracks early in the afternoon so that my boyfriendly duties could be wrapped up by 7:15pm; ample time to arrive back in front of my trusty Teac. As a precautionary back up, I arranged for my phone to ring at just before 7pm - enough time to wrap up a heartfelt goodbye and still stick to my plan.

Like clockwork, my Nokia rung a beautiful polyphonic tune and besides reaffirming my phone upgrade was worth it, it also signaled the ending of my afternoon and the beginning of my evening. As I rushed out the door to come to the aid of my brother whose car tyre had gone flat I offered the line, "We will discuss Scrubs when it finishes".

Knowing my hands don't see hard labor and guessing my inability to change a tyre, the girl immediately questioned my ability to not only watch Scrubs but how I would also manage a detailed critique of the episode.

I once broke up with a girl because..

Grand final night is usually a time to drink copious amount of alcohol with your mates, or for me on the night of the Melbourne, Brisbane grand final, it was a chance to close yourself off to your mates and opt for a girl with poise over drinks with the boys. The girl in question was met at university in a class all about the physicality of the body so in between fat content measurements and blood pressure takings I had sidled myself up to the girl and arranged to meet at the local to watch the final.

With my mates on one side of the pub, I sat on the other with the girl with my back to the action that was unfolding on the big screen. As the game finished and the bourbon supply seemingly ran dry, we entered a cab to an area of the coast that, at the time, was extremely foreign but would ultimately end up being a suburb I would live in for a year.

Upon arriving at the neat looking townhouse that the girl owned, she thought it was the optimal time to let me know that she forgot her keys and I would have to break into the house. Before questioning the idea I found my hands had been given a family heirloom; a gnome-like creature. Sentiments aside, it had the weight needed to create a clean break in the kitchen window so I would jump through and open the back door and gain access to a bed. The girl didn’t seem too worried about the heirloom as a family of similar creatures littered the freshly landscaped backyard. A swift and decisive swing against the window later and my hands were now full of the crumbling remains of the much treasured family heirloom. Not one to give up I quickly went through two-thirds of the gnome like family, leaving a solitary gnome standing proud yet alone in the backyard.

Clearly the approved breaking and entering was not going to work and the girl realised her garage was unlocked this whole time and featured a bed within. It was safe to assume that the garage was more often used as a bedroom and less as a house for a car.

The Sun hit the makeshift bedroom early the following day and the girl contacted a friend to pick us up and drive us back to her car so that I could eventually return to the valley I called home. My non-judgmental attitude was tested many times throughout the short drive as I met friends with eight year old children, partners sporting extreme rat’s tails and a backseat full of bum-bags and drug related paraphernalia. I quickly looked at myself in the rear view mirror; my combination of long golden hair, tightly manicured moustache and an admittedly tight shirt emblazoned with the word “cute” on it, was a starker contrast than any analogy this writer can come up with. I was not ready to allow this look the opportunity of being worn down by the association with lesser beings.

I once broke up with a girl because...

Something slightly different now; does it glamorise the exploits of some other ‘shallow troubadour' or just an excuse to tell a funny story from the point of view of the person who lived it.

“I made the fifty-minute drive without too much confusion. The Volvo handled the wet well - hopefully I would do the same later. I haven’t ventured this way really at all, apart from one or two trips to the pub with friends. The entire time through dinner I was thinking about what would happen next. It’s a shame really because I never got to enjoy the generic meal that I was consuming but I guess the mind operates that way sometimes.

Following dinner we moved to the lounge and began to watch television; my heart was racing faster than the hare as I prayed for an excuse for our setting to change to something more comfortable and dare I say, sexual.

My fleeting thoughts soon became reality as I unzipped to my boxer shorts and lay on the bed. Almost instantly, the scene became awkward as my hand felt a dilemma; I was unsure if I was touching myself or her – such was the extent of her hair. Sensing the change in mood, the girl threw the line, “I am tired”, rolling over and providing me with my last ever view of her face.”

Well there you have it...

I once broke up with a girl because...

It’s an unwritten rule of mine never to attend rugby league games in the west of Sydney but unfortunately this story took place when I was sixteen, still fresh faced and sporting peroxided hair which shone orange in the Sun.

KFC had an incestuous feel as a workplace; everyone wanted to go out with everyone, and with that sentiment a group of about eight people caught a Tangara to Homebush in something that resembled a quasi-quadruple date.

Having no love for the Bulldogs, I sat through the game as El Masri’s and Halligan’s vied for most useless winger in the sport. Afterwards we marched towards the train station to close what had so far been an uneventful evening.

While minding the gap and observing my future passengers a foul smell began to rise from the ground and into my nostrils.  At first I assumed, in an extreme racial generalisation, that it was a member of the stereotypical fan base with their equally stereotypical stench. However, I then noticed, similar to the smell, the blood of the girl was rising in such a state that in a matter of seconds her face resembled the flesh of a ripened beet. The ‘whoever smelt it dealt it’ ruling was overturned in this instance.

Clearly supplying the odour, it made for an awkward 90-minute train ride with the girl until her station came and went. The relationship was never quite the same, so strained that it was detrimental to my drive thru voice.

I once broke up with a girl because...

Aside from Nasi goreng, cock fighting and jalan jalan shopping exploits, people- namely girls, flock to Bali to get their hair put into braids with beads attached. But what happens when someone opts for this hairstyle when they have never left the continent of Australia? The following is a story of one such girl whose name has been long forgotten.

A party in the dark side of a certain town and a bottle of spiced rum had caused for a whole lot of calamity. Abuse was thrown for my choice of friend whom was brought along and for the spiced rum itself had not proved to be a hit and instead was smashed after only one sixteen year old sized shot was exhumed from the bottle.

As dramas involving a step dad occurred upstairs, downstairs your hero was finding out his baby blue Ripcurl jumper, which he would never ever wear these days, was becoming a hit with the ladies... All three of them.

Choosing wisely, I opted for the girl who had her hair in braids, instead of the familiar birthday girl coworker or her gorgeously blonde stepsister. She must have just returned from an exciting trip to Bali, I thought. That would be a great topic of conversation if I got stuck later on.

A week passed and a meeting was arranged and unfortunately led again to the dark side, the carpark of a particularly notorious bottle shop and grocery store. Following an awkward spell I offered my fail-safe, "loving the braids, when did you get back from Bali".

The entire notion of the word Bali was as foreign as the country itself as I found out the girl had not only never been but was unaware that this particular hairstyle had the word 'novelty' rubber stamped all over it.

I once broke up with a girl because... 

Theres an old television episode that states nothing good happens after 3am. Truer words had never been spoken as I left the local leagues club for the hour long walk with girlfriend in tow.

The title clearly points to the worse incident but to be fair it was the nail in the coffin or the straw that broke that camel’s back. Hands held, we ventured passed the many late night sights; the not so good pizza shop, the better but more expensive pizza shop, the burnt down laser tag venue, the petrol station famous for rock hard pies and the street sign/bullseye for many rock hard petrol station pies.

Twenty minutes into the walk and struggling to maintain meaningful conversation beyond the singing of DJ Otzi’s “Hey Baby”, the girl began to complain of foot pain. Not being a doctor slash not overly caring I did not notice that she was not wearing shoes and endured levels of complaints for a further ten minutes until she realised herself as she stepped in a wet, smooshy object that had to either be faeces or a human gallbladder.

The eternal renaissance man, I sat the girl on a log and inspected her foot, expecting to receive appreciative, thankful words but rather facing the demonic words of a woman possessed.  Alcohol and fear immediately erased these words from my memory but it was enough to make me move hastily in the direction of my house some twenty minutes further down the dark, dangerous roads.  Thirty odd metres down the road I stopped and peered over my shoulder; there she was still perched on her log and although slightly more muffled, her demonic, fear inducing words were still very much audible.

I once broke up with a girl because...

It was a time in my life when I had a pretty solid friend base, how times have changed, and I didn't really see the benefits in adding anyone extra into my life, so when it came to this particular girl, I was searching for reasons to defriend.

I realise this particular blog is not, by the title of I once broke up with a girl because, accurate, but to quote a 10 year old boy 'she's just a girl who is a friend'.

Google + invented something called circles; for those who are not familiar with this particular concept - most likely every single reader, it is a device which links your friendship groups together and puts such linkages into an image. Juggling several 'circles' in a scene slightly resembling a Venn diagram I was apprehensive when one circle looked to be attempting a merge with another and every member of this foreign, less familiar circle was under intense scrutiny.

The girl was a member of an atrociously titled all-female group. I would not call her the leader but she definitely ranked quite highly in the social structure. There were many things wrong with this girl but the icing on the proverbial cake was during a cultural chat about our heritages.

As I proudly lifted up my sleeve to show the tattoo depicting my background in Malta, I was bombarded with questions focusing on the small Mediterranean island. The stupidest of which was, "So you are Maltan?"

I once broke up with a girl because...

Being of Maltese descent I am very much fan of hair. Allow me to clarify, hair on one’s head. Allow me to further clarify, yes I can grow Amazon like facial hair and am prone to big hair moments but from my shoulders down I am more Caucasian than Mediterranean. That being the case, it is without question that hair is an important factor in any potential relationship with a girl.

In the midst of the Naughties I began seeing a girl who I met at a day at the races. I believe this fact provided the simple misgiving that caused me heartache and grief later in the piece. Uniform requirements for a female at the races consist of some type of extravagant headwear, also known as a fascinator. Adorned atop of the girl’s head was an elaborately homemade fascinator. In this instance homemade is not a synonym for shithouse. I took a liking to the being beneath the bonnet and things progressed to a date at a venue without our equine neighbours.

The lack of horses also meant a lack of headwear and it was this moment when I believe a particular line had been crossed. The line in question was a receding one, reminiscent of the interval between a foaming wave on the sandy shoreline at a beach… or did it?

To this day I was never actually sure if this was an issue of receding or just the eyes of a keratonic male playing tricks on him. Hindsight suggests I should have included scalpel massage into my boyfriendly duties but I was also very frightened that this would result in one of those low tides where you could walk for kilometres and in actual fact be out in the midst of the ocean. Without the wordsmith imagery, I thought the line would continue to recede to a point where it would pull right off like a Native Indian being scalped in the hit TV series Deadwood.