Mr. Please-Be-My-X, Thy Name is Predictable (in addition to PBMX, of course)

So, it turns out that I cannot get a divorce without a copy of my marriage license. Simple enough for the average person, right? Well, since my separation, I’ve been trying to overcome my general pack-rat-iness by culling through literally every single thing I own every three or four months. Can you see where this is going? I’ve looked everywhere, which in my tiny apartment is not that many places, and it is not here. So, I finally realized I was just going to have to pay the $50 and get a copy.

Unfortunately, I did not get Australian citizenship during my marriage, and without an Australian passport to prove my identity, I can’t get a copy of my own marriage license. So, I was forced to contact Mr. PBMX and send him the money to do it. In what has become his typical form over the 27 (!) months since our separation, he did something to himself which lead to hospitalization.

To one-up himself, this time he got evicted “because he was in the hospital” which I am taking to mean he didn’t pay his rent, which was probably overdue, since he was only in the hospital for three days. So now he is apparently homeless. He lives in a country with national health care, so these all-too-frequent hospital stays are free, not to mention in a country with dole benefits generous enough to actually live on, and he still can’t take care of himself. Sometimes I wonder what he did with the man I married.

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