Our 14 year anniversary was a couple of weeks ago. Quite a feat, in my opinion, seeing as relationships don’t seem to last longer than 14 months these days. And, for all those out there opposing gay marriage, we have been legally married for six years now; the world hasn’t ended, society hasn’t gone to shit and the only people destroying the sanctity of marriage are those folks who are getting divorced.

But I digress… Like any proper gay couple hubby and I decided to celebrate our anniversary at a fancy French restaurant, have a ridiculously expensive meal and then go back home and have some romantic sexy time in front of the fireplace. But, as fate would have it, that is not exactly what happened…

Firstly, some freak show in the USA predicted that the rapture was scheduled on the same day as our anniversary, which was quite inconsiderate – and I always thought Jesus would return on a Sunday. Secondly, on the same day, we discovered with quite a shock that we had a termite/ant infestation and the fuckers had constructed elaborate villages around our swimming pool pump and various other places.

To be honest, I didn’t pay much attention to the rapture but I did freak out about our bug invasion. Hubby and I promptly decided to buy some toxic compound so that we could make like Saddam Hussein; start our own campaign of terror and unleash our weapons of mass destruction.

An hour later we returned home with the poison, ready to commence with Operation Genocide. Hubby diluted the compound and we sprayed the hell out of their nests; a procedure first undertaken by hubby and then repeated by myself 30 minutes later.

Having confirmed our status of being at the top of the food chain and ‘Queens of our own yard’, we were satisfied that the little invaders were dying and our problem was solved. We showered, made ourselves pretty and set off for a romantic night of good food and romance. For once, the lady that lives in my GPS gave us proper directions and we arrived at the restaurant only seven minutes late. And our evening was off to a great start.

We opted for the restaurant’s five-course tasting menu, inclusive of wine, and the first three courses were absolutely scrumptious. We then went outside in the cold in order for me to have a cigarette (I hate South Africa’s stupid smoking laws and yes, I am still smoking).

But, while admiring the view and puffing away, our romantic evening came to an abrupt end. My stomach began turning and I suddenly desperately needed to get to the loo; I was nanoseconds away from shitting my pants!

The gentleman that is my husband took my coat and off I rushed to the toilet; trying to get there in a dignified manner. Half way, I decided ‘screw dignified’ and leaped into a sprint and almost didn’t make it in time. A good few minutes passed before I returned to our table looking pale, feeling lightheaded and no longer fabulous and sexy. Hubby looked concerned, but I was determined not to have our evening spoiled by whatever it was that I was afflicted with.

“I knew that God had a plan for my life but I couldn’t figure out how this fitted into it…”

We finished the last two courses, paid the bill and left. At home my condition continued to deteriorate. I suspected I had food poisoning and blamed the two-minute-noodles I had for lunch earlier that day. (All previous food-related illnesses I had suffered always, in one way or another, involved noodles.) There was to be no sexy time for us, and what followed was shit – literally!

This queen spent the better part of Saturday evening and early hours of Sunday morning on the throne. With my bowels being ravished and my sphincter not getting the kind of attention it had anticipated, my mind drifted to thoughts about the rapture that was scheduled for 2am (in our time zone).

At 1.30am I was asking myself many important life-changing questions. Was this my apocalypse? Was I being raptured through my anus? Was this how I would like to meet Jesus, with my pants down sitting on the toilet, tweeting on my BlackBerry? If so, God really had a strange sense of humour. I knew that he had a plan for my life but I couldn’t figure out how this fitted into it. I’m sure that at that point I was dehydrated and therefore also a tad irrational…

At around 2am I was all crapped out and fell into bed wondering if I should be wearing adult diapers. With that my last thought, I fell asleep with hubby’s comforting arms tightly wrapped around me.

Waking up on Sunday morning, the world was still there and the rapture had not occurred. I was feeling weak but the diarrhoea had stopped. It was a bit later during the day that we figured out what had actually made me sick.

I was poisoned – but it wasn’t food poisoning. It seems that in phase two of Operation Genocide I accidentally poisoned myself. Either by breathing in the vapour or by getting some of the liquid on my hands; I was smoking and so probably ingested it. So what’s the moral of this story? Don’t smoke and kill, always wear latex gloves when dealing with poison and don’t attempt pest control yourself – hire a professional!

Yes, our special night didn’t quite go as planned and our 14th anniversary will now forever be known as ‘the year I accidentally poisoned myself’. I’m sure in 10 years time I’ll be able to laugh about it, but for now it isn’t very funny.

More upsetting is the fact that the fuckers for whom the poison was intended are still alive; they’re still building their little taunting towers and diligently digging up our paving. But they will die this week, I promise you that much. We’re getting out a professional terminator. For them, the apocalypse is indeed nigh – and their rapture will not be through my asshole.

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