Don’t end up in the book – A Series of Very Bad Decisions

Debbie Downer returns

2014. It’s another new year. One of the reasons I HATE New Years as a holiday is because every Dec 31st I look back on the year and say, “Yep, failed at love again.” Now, don’t get me wrong – this is not me saying my life is necessarily incomplete, this is me saying that I consistently fail at the same thing over and over. I realize there is about a month long gap that fails to elaborate on more of the B3 nonsense and it’s no longer relevant anyway because I can’t see him ever again. He sees me as a pair of boobs that he really likes instead of a person with feelings. This is no exaggeration. I essentially got a text that boiled down to: I’m here if you want to do x-rated things but I don’t want to hear about you being upset. Hey buddy, you can take those x-rated thoughts and shove it!

Yesterday, I told my therapist that I felt guilty for deleting B3 as a Facebook friend (BURN) and he said guilt is something you should only feel if you’ve done something wrong. I can’t sit there and go through his pictures and remember all the good stuff, and I am not going to let him get glimpses into my life since he obviously doesn’t care to be in it in any real way. And I know FB can be very superficial at times but at others it is handy for sharing life events, etc.

Not once, but TWICE in 2013 did I get the “you’re amazing but…” speech, which I fucking hate, because if I were really so amazing, there would be no BUT. I see your bullshit, and raise you an evil glare.

This needs to be the year that I don’t feel guilt: for standing up for myself or for demanding more, or better (i.e. being treated as a priority rather than an option or last resort); for letting go – of anger, of sadness, of things that don’t belong in my head, for keeping the past where it belongs, and for truly believing that this is B3’s loss and not mine. Good luck finding another chick who loves sports and hates shopping and is as refined as I am.

In a move I like to call: you’re a moron…

I thought things with Bachelor #3 were done. Over the weekend I got another apology, minus an explanation, plus the whole, “I want to be friends more than anything” speech.

Eye-roll. I could have responded in one of three ways:

1 – Completely ignore him

2 – Tell him to go fuck himself

3- Agree to be friends because guys never mean it anyway and who cares

I stupidly chose option 3. Apparently he was serious, and told me he was going to pick me up on Sunday morning and we were going to go watch football.

Everything was fine, except he picked up the tab, which does not align with being friends. And we had a blast – at least I did, who knows what he was thinking. He even threatened to buy me a Maurice Clarett jersey for Christmas as part of his imposed therapy and insistence that I get over the end result of the 2003 Fiesta Bowl (that was not FUCKING pass interference!!).

(Side note: I’ve finally figured out how to tell if you’re on a date in Southern California, and that is whether or not they walk you to your car. If they do, it’s a date, if they leave you to fend for yourself in an eight story parking garage – probably not.)

Anyway. So it’s fine, I am thinking okay, we’ll be friends, because I’m still new here and he’s fun, and I don’t want to give up fun even though the pendulum of “fucked up” has already swung back and forth numerous times between “awww” and “run for your life” in the precisely three weeks that I have known him.

But Monday when I asked him if I could buy him drinks later this week because he’s paid for everything else, I get a text back saying he needs me to know that he’s a dick when it comes to dating (pause for reaction)…

…and that he sees the way I look at him when we kiss and he doesn’t want to hurt me.

First of all: SO MUCH CONDESCENSION.

Second of all: That ship has already sailed far far away after our third date.

Third of all: You have paid for everything we’ve done so far including when you just wanted to be “friends” (pause to look up definition)…

…Then I offer to buy you some drinks and maybe throw in some baseball and all of a sudden the way I looked at you when you last kissed me over a week ago is now a problem?

To make matters worse, I got a barrage of OKCupid messages on Sunday night in a play I like to call the End of Weekend Blues. The candidates were as follows:

One guy listed on his profile weed as one of the six things he can’t live without and that the first thing people usually notice about him is how he gets down (??). One guy was 51. Automatic no. One guy could not get his subject/verb agreement right (You meet Jay Cutler), and one couldn’t form a complete sentence: “Good morning miss looking gorgeous and oh yeah Ohio not a real state ;)”.

So is it any wonder I want to continue to hang out with Hottie McHott even though he’s kind of a prick? When he’s not being a prick, he’s fun. I know, I know, I’ve learned nothing.

You DON’T Want to Be in the Book

Trust me – if you’re a guy, you do NOT want to be in my book (unless I use your real name, in which case you are not a guilty party).

Someone who I was SURE was not going to be in the book just made it in. We’ll call him Tad Hamilton (for now – book name is subject to change if/when I feel like it).

Of course because it’s my life, and I have to do everything the hard way, I met TH at a work conference in Palm Springs and he of course lives in a completely different city than I do.

Now, since he’s going in the book, I’m not getting into the nitty gritty (you can buy it in 2013, I hope, which means I need to get cracking!!), but suffice it to say that bailing on me less than 48 hours before you’re supposed to fly into town to take me to a wedding is not the way to get on my good side. And all my friends that wanted to meet Tad Hamilton? Yeah, they hate him now. Also, my sister was not impressed when she met him (not that she’s EASY to impress, but she is at the top of the list of someone whose good side you would NEED to be on).

Aside from being blindsided and completely hurt, I am PISSED. Mostly because he went AWOL about a week ago so I knew something was up, but he waited until the 11th hour to tell me.

It is quite obvious looking back that the reason he never sent me his flight confirmation is that he never actually booked his flight.

Seriously – WHO DOES THAT? I will tell you who: jackholes that are going to end up in my book.

Listen, I know I’m not perfect. No one is. But there are ways to treat people and this is an example of what not to do.

Thank goodness I kept my lady business on lock down, otherwise I’d be crying at my desk right now instead of working on very important revenue reports.

I was joking with my friends that I felt like Carrie in the episode of Sex and the City where Berger breaks up with her on a post-it note.

(Also, why does Carrie walk EVERYWHERE in heels? Heels hurt like a mo-fo. I walk everywhere in flip-flops. Anyway.)

Fine, okay, at least he CALLED me, but it was to tell me he was still in love with his ex and not coming to Chicago (again, with less than 48 HOURS NOTICE, ARE YOU F-ING KIDDING ME DUDE???). And even though he’d been AWOL, I still felt blindsided, because it wasn’t like there were other hints that would have tipped me off (though, I suppose asking him for his flight info 97 times and not getting it was a pretty big hint).

He works with his ex – her official name moving forward is Skanky McHoebag. I know that the distance was going to be a challenge for us regardless and he works with McHoebag, so on top of them being in the same city, they see each other daily. I can’t compete with that.

But really, I don’t want to compete with ANYONE.

And you? Well YOU do not want to be in my book.