portrait of a breakup. recognize. (part I)

August 2010. Orlando, Florida.

So I’ve collapsed on the floor of my kitchen. The floor is dirty but I don’t care. Cat hairs, onion skins, a cornflake. There are these brief moments of almost silence, while I contain it. And in between, the cat comes in, regards me, with the ears back and then the eyes wide and disturbed while I wail “Whyyyyyyyyyyy?” or some gurgled rendition of “I fucking love youuuuuuuuuu.”

This is followed by body-shaking sobs, and----all together now---the blowfish puffed-up face, this red ball that resembles me slightly. And, with the wailing, comes the slapping of the cold gray tiles.  Then the almost silence again.

And I hate fucking every last thing. I especially hate that we ever met.

My knees are weak. I really can’t get up. In a flash of memory, I am right back there at that stupid bar. The scene of what should really be called a crime. That damn bar where he stopped me while I was walking out. He was cute but not that cute and I remember being irritated because he was holding me up. And why, when he asked for my phone number, did I give it to him? I said no way, the first time, and then he said, oh come on, I’m a nice guy.

A nice guy.

My ass.

If only that moment had never been, I wouldn’t be here on this cold and dirty floor tonight, slapping the tiles, frightening the cat, wishing it all back.

Love makes you crazy. Every song ever written will tell you that. Every story ever worth reading or seeing or hearing about is the same regurgitated tale of love---lost, regained, lost again---just like sand through somebody’s knobby fingers, and for what? To feel like this? Like this out-of-my-mind zombie who is about to pull herself off this goddamn floor, pull on a dirty baseball cap and drive, angrily drive while listening to loud angry music, to go buy a homeless guy’s version of Jim Beam and some gingerale to chase it down with. At home on the couch. Yes, alone, thank you. Shameless self-medication. Oh hell yes.

And the couch. Goddamnit. His old, stinky, masturbated and farted on couch. That, too.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!!” The cat’s terrified now. I’m terrified.

Nothing makes sense. I want to smash things. I want to rip up all of his stupid, fucking, bullshit letters. I want to slash his tires, slash the tires to his stupid car that he thinks is cool but isn't, I want to be breathing heavy in the dark, heart pounding at the prospect of getting caught, leering outside the window like Glenn Close boiling that rabbit. Slash his tires. And hers. Throw eggs on everything. I think these thoughts, sure. They help get it out. I can imagine his hunky dory, huh what, ass coming out in the morning with his fresh brewed to-go mug steaming, her lame bye-sweetie smile in the doorway or some shit, his key in the ignition. And…..scene. Go nowhere ass clown.  Gotcha.

But I don’t.

I may be crazy but I'm not insane.

And maybe I'm not crazy. Maybe I'm just misunderstood.

The coldness of the tile has broken through my sweatpants. My ass is officially a new temperature. Two cheeks at 74 degrees Fahrenheit cold.

It’s time to get up, girl. Baseball cap awaits. Jim Beam is calling.

So I go. I drive. I do. I run and hide from my own mind. And, for the moment, on that hideous couch, everything is calm. Everything is just fine.

play the numbers game

I have some advice to impart to those shy guys out there. Don’t stop playing the numbers game. If you like someone, let her know. I mean, don’t pressure her or constantly engage like a moron if she’s not responding, but don’t play it cool either. Here’s the thing: you just have to let someone know and take the risk. Here’s why: in my experience, apparently I’ve missed too many good ones because they were “too shy” to do anything and I later heard from them (or their friends) all these wasted years later that they had liked me after all. But they were too shy, insecure, whatever, to tell me at the right time. This is unfortunate. Really, really unfortunate.

So I say: throw it out there. What do you have to lose? Seriously, if someone I actually liked told me half the things I hear from guys I’m not into, well, I’d be ecstatic. It's pretty evident that the dorks seem to have the corner on this numbers game by fearlessly, and (in the case below) creepily, pushily (yes, those are both words: creepily and pushily) purusing the wrong women and by ignoring the obvious signs that they are not interested in them (like when we're not returning calls, barely returning texts, never saying yes to getting together) I still suggest they continue. Not with the same girls, no. That's just DUMB. But, yes, they should just continue throwing it out there. Don't hold it in. Despite the rejection. It’s the same thing as having any kind of worthwhile goal---and not giving up on it. As for shy guys (who are not dorks but who are just shy), they might want to take a page from the fearless dork book.

Many, many white trash lotto winners can't be wrong: if you play the numbers game long enough, sooner or later, you'll win.

Knowing what it's like to be the girl on the receiving end of this unwanted interest, there’s this weird guilt associated with rejecting someone even if you don’t really know them. And perhaps weirder still, you develop a strange resentment toward that person for making you feel guilty because, after all, you don’t really know them. It’s not your responsibility that you’ve inspired this bizarre attachment or inappropriate, superficial adoration on their part. 

You just wish this same sort of attention was coming from someone else. Someone you actually liked. Then it wouldn't be weird, creepy or pushy. It would just be....good.

So the advice is: throw it out there. Why not. You may miss the mark. Like this series of texts I got from (depending on your perspective or your mental state) either the sweetest guy on the planet or the most desperate. I do love grand, sweeping romantic gestures, particularly in today’s cold, digital world. We are missing too much of the time and space between that makes people think and miss each other and say things from their hearts. However, this is just, well, this is not that. 

This is someone who I met once and only once who has granted me, I imagine, qualities I most certainly do not possess and who is merely infatuated with, yet again, the “idea” of me. 

So let’s examine, shall we, some fairly recent texts sent by someone with clearly NOTHING to lose. We met at a networking event I attended with my parents. With my parents. The only reason Noway Inhell (not his real name) has my number is because I thought he might be a worthwhile business contact. Ugh. I was superficial about this. He has a good job. He went to a prestigious college. He could (kind of) hold a conversation. And, oh horrors, to think I was safe with my parents. Goes to show, these dorks have no boundaries. 

See for yourself, at first the seeming (albeit cringe-worthiness) benign interest when I told him that “oh wow, I am just sooooo busy…” blah blah blah…(which I don't have a snapshot of, sorry but his response covers it) and when I did not answer my phone, return his calls or texts, he still just GOES FOR IT…the “we both love food” comment had me stumped other than, I guess, some obscure reference to, I don’t know, sharing some nachos at said networking event?….(with, yes, my parents) and as for the Santa comment about me being 'nice,' ugh, really?:

But it doesn’t stop there….please, for your own amusement, read on…I was forced to lie at this point so as to not hurt the poor chap’s feelings.( I am not seeing anyone and merely made this up.) What self-respecting guy asks a woman out for NYE on the 29^th of December? Clearly, not a normal one. Or one who has any kind of social life. And certainly not one that you meet with your parents at a seemingly innocuous networking event:

You’d think the poor boy would get it at this point on December the 30^th. Oh no. Nope. He sure didn’t:

Still no response from me FIVE DAYS later….so, on January the 4^th, the bloke (I’m running out of words for “guy”) makes the brilliant decision to text me again, thinking, something like:  'gee, I better text her one more time lest she forget allllll about me' :

I must admit….running a marathon in the rain really had me thinking. It had me thinking this dude was out of his mind. And not in a fun, sexy, wow, how awesome that he throws it out there like that way. No. In a, holy shit, I better change my number, this guy is s creepy stalker kind of way. But then….what do you know…from the 4^th to the 21^st, he does a little more thinking and decides….21 must be his magic number….I’ll reach out to this girl AGAIN…even though she hasn’t once (not EVEN ONCE) responded to my calls or texts (except to say that she is seeing someone!!!!!)....

I deleted the rest of the texts but this one just says “I have 2 tix to Linkin Park in Tampa, etc.” Yadda yadda. At this point, I was looking for back-up. I called a guy friend here in town. He didn’t answer fast enough for me. So I called another one. In Vermont. In VERMONT. Someone I knew could handle the deal with class. With balls. And with humor. So I called my buddy up in VT and said, “Hey, listen, I have a bizarre favor to ask you. Can you be my boyfriend for five or ten minutes and tell this whacko to back the F off?”

One call. He did it right then. Done and done.  

I have not heard from networking creeper since. Then again, it’s only February 3^rd. The month is young.

You’d think from the truly embarrassing nature of these texts that I’d be waving a huge red flag saying “DON’T.” But I’m not. Somewhere between desperado dorkface and just shy is the way to go. It’s just sad that the best guys are sometimes the shyest. Chances are, if you put it out there even a fraction of this poor chump, you’ll be surprised by how much you get back.

Really. 

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