Great, it's you. What, wasn't breaking up once enough for you? Oh, of course. You're here because you've finally plucked up the courage to come take away half of our stuff. Sorry, yes, your stuff. You couldn't just let me get on with drinking too much and hating myself in peace, could you? No, you want to add a half-empty apartment to all the other happy reminders I have of our glorious time together.
Well that's just fine. You go right ahead. No problem. Take whatever you want. Don't you worry about me. Why don't you start with the books? I've already separated yours out from mine so they'll be easier for you to pack. You'll find them in a grey, soft heap in the fireplace.
You can take as many DVDs as you want too, because I watched them all last night. I know that's a lot of movies, but it turns out it's faster when you just watch them fly out of the living room window into the garden. Most of them are more entertaining that way too, especially after a bottle and a half of cheap gin.
Which reminds me, you might as well take that megalithic twatscreen TV you bought too, because the picture has gone all weird. No I didn't break it on purpose. It just toppled over the other night when I came home. OK, so I might have been a bit drunk and I might have bumped into it, but it was an accident. I was only trying to keep my distance from the sofa, which is completely covered in vomit. Oh yeah, I forgot: you can take that too if you want.
Your clothes? Yeah, I know they aren't in the closet. No I didn't chuck them out - I'd never do something like that. I donated them to the homeless center downtown. You might be able to buy them back if you hurry. And you don't mind a few piss and alcohol stains here and there.
What, you want the cat too? OK, that's going to far. You've got to be kidding me. I know he was your cat. But don't you remember that I'm the one who ended up looking after him all the time, feeding him, taking him to the stupid vet, getting up in the middle of the night to let him in, or let him out, or whatever the fuck he wanted to do? OK, whatever, I don't care. Don't worry about him being happier here living with me, or that he's old, or any of that, because yes, you're right, he's technically your cat. Go ahead and fucking take him. I just hope he rips your new house to shreds, shits in your bed, and bites that twat you've moved in with.
In fact, he'd better. It's taken me ages to train him.