... rxg4; rd5; f6; rd1; g7; 1-0

A lot of cunts say that relationships are like games. I’m one of those cunts. They are like games. But do I think that way because so many other cunts think they’re like games, and therefore I have to buy into that fact because that’s life?

For the purposes of this rant, let’s all be cunts and assume that relationships are like games. After all, come on – we all react to our partner’s moves, motives and agendas, for whatever reason. The reasons don’t have to be selfish. They usually are, you massive cunt, but they don’t have to be.

So it’s like a game of chess, say.

You start out with nothing to lose, and you can make bold and stupid plays like the Fool’s (f4; e6; g4; Qh4++) or Scholar’s (e4; e5; Bc4; Nc6; Qh5; d6; Qxf7++) Mate. These are the ones you play in a nightclub – speed chess, timer at five minutes - hoping she’s drunk enough to make stupid moves. All you want is a quick fuck. And like a total fucking cunt, you can write off those games, because you had nothing to lose. It’s only chess! Fuck the King.

But then you move into less trivial games. You know – you’re dating some poor bint. Time for good openings: Queen’s Gambit (d4; d5; c4; dxc4; …; … if accepted) is always a solid, boring choice but it might not impress her much, and she could always decline and fuck you up. Maybe you’ll woo her by developing your bishops before your knights (e4; e5; Nf3; d6; Bc4; Bg4; …), you arrogant cunt. Whatever. You have to have more wits about you, or at least as much wit as you can muster, you witless cunt, because now the stakes are a bit higher – maybe you’ll have a relationship. Maybe you can play her into a lovely, un-timed mid-game.

Good work, Cuntus Maximus, you’re heading for the end-game now. It’s make or break. Time to pull out some fucking fantastic moves, you sorry sonofacunt, because you know you like her a lot now. Maybe you’re even in love, for Christ’s sake – there had better be something good up your alarmingly cuntish sleeve. Kasparov’s trouncing of Deep Blue in 1997 (nf3; d5; g3; bg4; b3; nd7; bb2; e6; bg2; ngf6; 0-0; c6; d3; bd6; nbd2; 0-0; h3; bh5; e3; h6; qe1; qa5; a3; bc7; nh4; g5; nhf3; e5; e4; rfe8; nh2; qb6; qc1; a5; re1; bd6; ndf1; dxe4; dxe4; bc5; ne3; rad8; nhf1; g4; hxg4; nxg4; f3; nxe3; nxe3; be7; kh1; bg5; re2; a4; b4; f5; exf5; e4; f4; bxe2; fxg5; ne5; g6; bf3; bc3; qb5; qf1; qxf1+; rxf1; h5; kg1; kf8; bh3; b5; kf2; kg7; g4; kh6; rg1; hxg4; bxg4; bxg4; nxg4+; nxg4; rxg4; rd5; f6; rd1; g7; 1-0) shows what one can pull out of the bag even after cunting up the opening, and if you can manage this one in the relationship game then you’re surely going to mate her. Nice.

But then, not everybody’s as sound as Kasparov during the end-game. You start to realise how much is really at stake. Yep - your throbbing cunt of a heart. You might make some wrong moves (k{knocked off side of table}) or try some desperate strategies in the hopes she won’t notice (q{in pocket}). But you can’t afford to make those mistakes. She’s everything you’ve ever wanted, and her claws are in your soul. She’s calmly queening her pawns and smiling that delicious, heavenly smile at you – the one that makes her look like the key – and then… You forget how to play chess.

How did you manage that? The love has smothered all rational knowledge out of your system and the chessboard now resembles random bits of wood and splinter. You’ve gone and fucked up. Then she checkmates you.

Or maybe you checkmate her. Whatever.

What does checkmate even mean in this analogy?

It just means an end, winner and loser. You can’t go about playing games without that happening. It’s like you accidentally planned an end? Why? What’s the fucking point of that or anything that led up to it?

If you’re playing a game in your relationship, then surely your cuntitude is so directly self-destructive that it will stagger even your own hindsight. Games, by their nature, indicate an ending and the non-existence of anything remotely resembling love. Games of out-hurting each other end up in more pain than you have the emotional capacity to represent, and games of out-loving each other end up in a plateau of sickly-sweet nothingness without the foundations to hold it up.

I like to call such situations, not checkmate, but cuntmate. Because you both find yourselves in the odious position of having your most accurate literary representation equalling the most offensive word in the English language. And rightly so, because unqualified respect for another person cannot exist while you’re selfishly masturbating your strategic gland, watching in self-satisfied glee as it spews hot, sticky tactics all over their face. Of course it can’t. You’re not in love when you’re playing games.

And contrapositively; you can tell that you’re truly in love, if there is no game.

The overriding cunt in all of this: It’s near-impossible to not play these games. Caring for someone and therefore wanting them to care about you – no matter what that takes – is easily confused with virtue and moral feelings. Being hurt by someone you love makes it hard to avoid using whatever degree of emotional control you have over them to your own ends. In fact, you’d have to be a saint, or be with a saint, not to do these things.

Saints? That sounds like a tall order. Well, it is - as per sodding usual. So good luck with that.

Kind regards,