“Yeah, I lied about getting a girl pregnant. That never happened.”
My nipples retracted into my chest. That’s when I knew we would never sleep together again.
“Why would you lie about that?” I asked, quizzically.
“I don’t really know,” he replied.
This was just one example that proved this guy psychotic–and why the thought of him forces me to hum the Talking Heads. I should have seen the warning signs from the get-go. Upon our first meeting, he ignored me completely, like a cocky high school quarter back from Texas ignores the head cheerleader in order to peak her interest, just so that the very same night he could ask her on a date, and continue to text her through the night (Red flag #1).
Something about this approach works, though, because still I was intrigued. He wasn’t my type physically, but he was smart and knew a lot about music. He also had a way of teasing me and pointing out my idiosyncrasies. Plus any man that claims to be a feminist instantly earns points. Little did I know this was a manipulative scheme to get me to pay for my own drinks, let alone take my bra off.
Red Flag #2:
First date and this guy will not stop telling me how into me he is. And during the movie! You can try and stick your hands down my pants, but don’t talk okay? This was a Coen brothers film, after all.
Red Flag #3:
This man ran like the energizer bunny on three hours of sleep a night. Was he coked up or just a natural ball of fire? Any time I woke him up, he would immediately open his eyes wide, as if he weren’t actually asleep, and say “What’s up? Do you want breakfast?”
Sure, I’ll have a fat bowl of Charles Manson.
Red Flag #4:
This was the worst.
We are drunk off homemade saketinis, and said gentleman will not stop mumbling, “I think I love you. I really think I love you. Oh my God.” These promulgations persisted from 1AM until, yes, 5AM.
Now you may ask yourself, “How come she didn’t dump his ass after the first couple of red flags?”
And the answer to that is easy: convenience. Keep in mind this was January. Knowing I could do the nasty on the regular was an absolute must, because going out scouring for cock on a harsh winter night is just asking for whiskey dick. It’s barren out there…
But the worst part was the contradicting.
One night we were out at a bar together and I was feeling particularly sexy. I ran into a foxy old flame and I smooched him directly on the lips.
Psycho did not like this. I mean, Isn’t pecking like Facebook poking?
He said it would be unjust to use alcohol as an excuse. Too bad he used the same one for the “I love you,” shenanigans.
“You don’t even know me!” was a common juvenile defense. Well if this was the case, how could he like me so much? Something is rotten in the state of Denmark…
Sex should never be so irritating, I don’t care how regular it is.
All bitterness aside, was he mentally stable? No.
Does he have my address? Yes.
Has there been a white van parked outside of my house since January? Maybe.