this is a little story about how this one thing went for me.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Back when I was a big idiot, I used to date this wannabe record producer. I was just almost 21, I think. I wasn’t “sleeping with the boss to get ahead.” I genuinely thought I liked this manchild and that someday he’d wake the heck up from his permanent daydream and be like “Oh man, this almost-21 year old girl who has all the hopes and dreams in the world has been loyal like a dog to me for the last ten months and maybe I should give her the respect she’s asking for in return.” Like I said, I was a big idiot back in the day. Way more of an idiot than I am now.

This dude was totally handsome and he was this real adult unlike any real adult I had met before. You know, in MY life, not life in general. He kept my bathroom really clean. And I mean, I know I have issues hanging all of my clothes up at once and putting all the pillows back on my bed when I finally get out of it, but I am by no means a messy or filthy person. He cleaned my bathroom the way my mom would clean a bathroom if she had a 14 year old boy who never flushed and was the bane of her existence. It should have warned me.

ANYWAY. I really liked this old man I was dating. He refused to commit to me on a boyfriend/girlfriend level because he “wasn’t ready for that,” which even a barely 21 year old idiot knows is a horrible thing for a man to say when he’s sleeping in your bed seven nights a week.

I reacted pretty bravely when I found out the reason he wasn’t answering my calls at my official 21st birthday party was because he was at his GIRLFRIEND’S house. I do, you know, have this really zen-like quality in the moment of crisis. I never want to end things horribly. I never want to throw someone’s laptop off their second-story balcony. I never want to punch them in the face. I just do what I was raised to do: sent a text message reading, “Do me a favor and don’t ever talk to me again.” I got in my Civic, spare clothes in my lap, and I drove to Jessie’s/Brad’s house where I proceeded to spend the next two weeks of my life a crying, shivering mess of a human that couldn’t eat, sleep, or go to the bathroom properly. Is that gross? I’m sorry. When you don’t eat, your stomach stops working. It’s crazy! I’m telling you! I don’t understand the Master Cleanse for that reason!  I was clearly in the middle of a crisis, but I was also a 21 year old idiot and I thought my coping mechanisms were great.

At this point I was living in a building without laundry, and so was this girl Nicole, so one night we piled up all of our clothes in trash bags and went to a laundromat in Westlake. We decided to hold out on the laundry for an hour and grab a quick bite to eat. While we were crossing the street, I spotted a silver SUV and I said to her, “Ha! That looks like that freaking loser’s car. I bet you he’s on a date with someone and that’s why it’s parked down here.” I was half-kidding, but completely correct.

We walked another three feet, and there was my former manchild, sitting in front of an ice cream shop with a really average girl in a pale green sweater. She looked so normal that it shocked me. She looked like a teacher. She was pretty, but in a plain way. She was kind of buttoned up, but you could still tell that her modest sweater was her “fun date outfit.” I could feel the blood draining out of my body and in to my feet. So, I walked up to him. I said “It’s really nice to see you. Who is your friend?” Now, in retrospect, that was creepy of me. I told him we were doing laundry and grabbing a bite to eat and his date, the green sweater lady, piped up with, “You know where you should go? You should go to Good. I’ve heard it’s pretty… good.”

You guys, I got stiffed and heartbroken by the kind of man who would replace me with a woman who would make a joke about the fact that there’s a decent restaurant called Good. At the time I felt like I would never, ever recover. Ever. I thought my life was over, but almost three years later, I am sitting here and writing this and laughing and laughing and laughing. Audibly. In my little 10x10 room with the money I make from forms of non-literal whoring, I am laughing my ass off thinking about how badly I let that man hurt me and all the wonderful, life-altering things that happened to me in the years after.

It’s pretty “Good,” huh?

I’m sorry. KILL YOURSELF.