The Break-up Economics: A Seasoned Practitioner’s advice

So, now that IT was officially over economic profits had to be made out of it, I decided.
All those dinner dates, ferry rides, long telephone calls and cigarettes I had been affectedly financing over the past few months finally needed to be replenished. It was a fair deal. The skull beneath the skin is always economic, and someone always has to pay.

Accordingly then I began on the plan the week after he made the announcement over the phone. It was essential that the possessions be distributed astutely. There were pertinent questions to be asked.
Who must get what?
Who had to give away and who would happily appropriate?
Who deserved what?
Clerk like I sat down on a Sunday afternoon to note it all down, in bureaucratic fashion, in unchallengeable black and white terms.
All that would now be written would be Gospel’ishly correct.
Thus, all further claims, irrespective of their nature and demand would go completely unheard.
Having decided so, I began.

Admittedly, such redistribution is a tough deal, but a systematic approach can iron out all doubts. So quickly I draw out columns.

MUSIC CDS
HOME ACCESSORIES
CLOTHES
BOOZE
DVDS
ETC’s

Now that the primary categories were decided the allocations were a finger lickingly easy job. It was like this, everything that was important, snazzy, zappy, exciting and altogether coveted would go to the one most hurt over the affair. The one who was kicked in the gut, dropped like a hot potato, flicked like a fly, spat out like a raw bone.
Simply put that would be ME.
So the DOORS box set would be mine (finally!!), I scribbled on the paper assiduously with my tongue sticking out. The Godard collection, the one remaining bottle of Bailey’s Irish cream, the Goan fenny, the bead curtains, the Hair Dryer, the pressure cooker……the steam iron…everything belonged to me.
I smiled smugly.
Of course that didn’t include everything that could be taken, simply because the bumbling oaf did not possess enough things for me to covet. For instance what would I do with a pair of nose hair clippers, since I (unlike the Beanstalk Giant I seemed to have been living with) did not possess hair follicles that peep out of my nostrils. How would I put to use his incorrigibly immaculate sets of socks and ties and B-O-O-O-R-I-N-G Sunday shirts?
Similarly, what could a man/woman/child/creature possibly do with a collection of various coloured post it and tag-its?

The man I noticed had been scheming enough to leave me unfinished jigsaw puzzles.

To live up to the situation one had to, I realized, escape these fundamental questions. All such inquisition was unnecessary and absurd. Now that the man had left these things behind (along with myself might I mention)
I had every right to use them in any which way I pleased. If I ran out of ideas I would tastefully cover every inch of my apartment walls with the damned post it’s and make washing lines with his Calvin Klein neck ties. And one day after the storm was over, in a bid to console the past, I would invite him for dinner and make him rub his shoes, cautiously, over door mats stitched with his precious Dior socks.

Really, if you looked hard enough there were such chinks of light in the darkness!

Of course, the lady that I am, I would never jump on his car bonnet or break his golf-clubs just top give vent to my fury.
Tch-tch…that would be in bad taste indeed.
Gentle women like us accept graciously and smile to seal the deal. It is only later that we serve the pickled mushrooms and watch the wrong-doer break into a rash with diamond eyed interest.
That requires restrain. And we have that in plenty.