My Girlfriend is Cheating on Me with Biscuits.

The Daily Digest(ive) — Biscuit Log: Day 74.

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Photo by Christina Branco on Unsplash

17/10/2019, 1:35pm. It’s a grey, dull day and there’s a bitter chill to the air. Apparently that’s still reasonable enough weather for biscuits.

The collection is growing.

It’s amassing like crazy.

I’m half expecting to stumble into the lounge and find her body, lifeless and compact, crushed by the solid weight of the excess boxes of biscuits we have lying around the place.

But not yet. She’s being too subtle for that. Or at least, she thinks she is. But she ain’t foolin’ me. There are way too many inexplicable crumbs littered across our mattress for her to feign ignorance now. I’ve almost caught her red (velvet Oreo) handed.


Needless to say, though, she’s a professional. There is no way in Hobnob Hell that she has acquired these skills overnight — this here talent is an accumulation of a lifetime’s worth of biscuit lovin’. So she won’t slip up easily.

Which is why I’ve been gathering evidence, compiling notes, building a case against her. It sounds silly, I know, but have you ever been bested by a malted milk before? I bet you haven’t. But I have. And it sucks (for the record, they suck too. Quite nicely. Especially after being dunked in tea) ((ah, you see! She’s infiltrating my appropriate-attachments-towards-biscuits brain!)).

I just want to know why she loves them, seemingly more so than she loves me.

Don’t get me wrong. I felt petty at first. So what my girlfriend has an unconventional hobby? We all have our quirks right? I refuse to watch anything on channel four, ever. Not because of superstition or anything, but because me and my best mate in primary school made a pact that we’d boycott it after they stopped hosting Big Brother and here we are, me still absolutely bossing it because I’m a loyal friend and a natural born winner.

So I had no right to try and reign back Brooke’s love for rich teas and custard creams, jammy dodgers and shortbread fingers (and the rest). Just because she’d make me pull into the nearest petrol station to stock up, whenever we embarked on a journey longer than twenty minutes, so what? Just because I could never quite hear her on the phone whenever I’d call, her mouth full, voice muffled by the buttery barriers blocking it. Does that really matter, in the grand scheme of things? Just because my Christmas present, every damn year, was a McVities Victoria box of biscuits that she’d later that very same evening demolish all on her own, without even a second glance, an empty offer, towards me. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me, right?

Those instances were odd, sure, but they were not enough reason to justify my paranoia.

Until, of course, they were.

Because it has been 74 days of this crumbly crap now (well, 74 days since I began logging it, at least. I suspect this obsession has been going on for much, much longer). And Brooke has ignited a biscuit apocalypse.

It’s like every snack cupboard in every household that has ever existed in this and any other version of the universe (ever) has erupted, spilling out through their respective kitchens and made a conscious beeline for our very home.

I cannot cope.

When I said she was being subtle, in no way did I mean in respect to hiding her hoard. Gosh no! That she is wildly too proud of.

What I meant was, she’s playing a damn good game in pretending that she still loves me. When, in reality, I know she’s just keeping me around so we can continue to afford this biscuit-storage sized house.

I can hear her chomping from the other room this very second. I’m going to check it out.

Oh look.

She’s caressing a bourbon like it can even feel her touch. Eugh.

Making my approach now — going to try for a quick kiss, if I can even catch a spare moment of her busy mouth.

Update: she did not take it well. I accidentally leaned in as she was reaching for another biscuit, we collided, I knocked it out of her hand, it collapsed into a heap of broken crumbs on the carpet. The dog is eating it. She looks furious.

17/10/2019, 3:48am. It’s the middle of the night. I didn’t realise the lounge was this cold.

I’ve never really experienced love before this. Brooke was my first ever serious girlfriend and we’ve been together for about four years now. I guess you could say I just went along with whatever, because I didn’t know what else to expect and she was sweet and I was never explicitly unhappy, so it worked. For the most part.

But now? Now I’m not so sure.

I might be wrong, but I never quite thought true love meant being banished to a restless night, cramped along the — yeah, you guessed it. Biscuit covered — sofa. Simply because I inadvertently caused a bourbon breakage. Yet here we are! For the foreseeable future — or “damn well forever, you spiteful animal” as she so kindly spat (a crumb even landed on my eyeball, inducing a tear or two. Never really thought this biscuit madness would make me cry. But life is full of surprises, right? And brands of flour-based treats, apparently).

I’m not so sure you can even call this an affair, anymore. There is no spontaneous lust quite like this. This isn’t what happens in movies — nobody gets ditched for a Bakewell tart. This isn’t cheating. I don’t really know what it is, but I can certainly tell you one thing:


I think I’ll stick to dunking cake in my tea, from now on.

— —

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