For a blissful month, life was good for The Boyfriend and Yours Truly. Cali Gurrrl and Beanie Face were excellent housemates, readily available every weekend for saturating our tormented brains with alcohol. Jelly shots and sangria and punch were regulars on our pre-drinking list. I enjoyed myself immensely, or so I was kindly reminded by everyone during postmortems the morning-after. I became a bit of a maniacal fixture on the streets of Melbourne on Friday nights - I met and terrified The Kooks, I was refused from almost every upscale pub (wholly the fault of whoever invented high heels), I happily accepted offers of hot chips from the charitable souls who fed the homeless (wholly the fault of whoever made sidewalks so comfortable for drowsy drunks) and tearfully - and regularly - questioned The Boyfriend's intentions and sincerity regarding our relationship (wholly his fault for staying with me so long, if you think about it).
I was making a few nice friends in my workplace and The Boyfriend's work had gotten the sponsorship process underway. We had something to look forward to and that made all the difference.
Fat Shite updated his Facebook statuses with snide remarks abut how wonderful life was in Brisbane with his new job and his new friends. Little did he know, his wonderful life in Brisbane made mine in Melbourne a whole lot more bearable. However, I'm a spiteful thing not-so-deep-down and frequently hoped his balloon-sized head would be somewhat deflated some day.
Some day was sooner than I thought.
I'd remained friends with Sour Puss and her soccer star significant other for purely inquisitorial purposes. Though the jabbing statuses annoyed me, I couldn't help but check their pages to track their progress. It's an embarrassing admission, but I am a thorough-bred country bumpkin and as such, gossip is as necessary as oxygen. So when I randomly spotted that one of Sour Puss' friends had posted a welcome home message on her page, only for the same message to be deleted hours later, I almost shat.
I hollered for The Boyfriend, told him the news. Being the good person he is, he shrugged noncommittally, and returned to his perusal of the broken window latch in the kitchen.
It was the first morning I was eager to get to work. I barreled past Boss and Sappy, barely acknowledging their yawned greetings and pulled a couple of girls from the deli into the coat room and basically spat out the revelation that Fat Shite had returned home, tail between his chafing thighs. if there is one thing that will unite girls on a global scale, it is someone Getting Their Comeuppance. I realise now how horrendous it was that I was garnering mirth from the failure of another human being, but I literally could not help myself. I couldn't think of a more deserving fate to a more deserving fellow.
Australia isn't for everyone - I don't even know if it's for me. I understand completely how one could become overwhelmed and abandon this dusty continent for the familiarity of home, but Fat Shite's scary-tale-ending was too hilarious to jot down to homesickness.
The Boyfriend heard the whole story from home. Fat Shite had lasted six days in total in Brisbane. What became of his dream job, I will probably never know. Apparently, their money ran out and his parents bought them rescue flights. The Boyfriend was painfully wise and silent about the whole thing - "What goes around, comes around", he astutely informed us that weekend, the table around which we gathered scattered with empty bottles of $2 wine bottles.
I slurred something incomprehensible and slumped to the ground, reveling in what felt like a victory.
Six months later, The Boyfriend and I were living in an almost derelict hotel for backpackers over an ex-Nazi hangout, clutching a rejection to our sponsorship request, potential doors to progression slamming in our faces, all hope obliterated, traitorous tears brimming.
And that, my friends, was my own introduction to karma - and she's as much of a bitch as everyone has ever said.