Filed under: assholes | Tags: assholes, boys, cheaters, douchebags, facebook, haters, love, lovers, luv
For the last couple months, a boy that I briefly dated years ago has been making a shitty attempt at rekindling… whatever it was he thought we had. He moved out East years ago, and recently added me on FB. Regardless of the fact that his Facebook says he’s in a ‘domestic partnership’ with a lovely girl.
Today I received the following FB message from her…
I am sorry that N. is being an utter asshole. I had a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach yesterday. We were going apple picking then he was supposed to come over to his parents and I nor his mom could get a hold of him as he said his phone was dead. Now I can see that he was hanging around the house fucking about with other girls online.
You are correct in what you said to him that his actions speak much about his character. I am completely devastated after reading his messages to you. You are smart to call him on his bullshit because he is full of it. We haven’t had an open relationship since April 2010 per his request. We live together, he doesn’t have a job and I pretty much take care of everything. He never mentioned to me that he was going to California to see anyone.
You are also correct in assuming that I would be very hurt. I’m hurt that he wants kids with you. I’m hurt that he speaks so sweetly to you. In hurt that he loves you.
You seem particularly intelligent and I am glad that you are not falling for his bullshit
The reason I decided to tell you was to save you the pain of dealing with him later because he is a habitual liar. He did this to his ex as well from what I’ve found out.
I can assure you that I’m not a horrible bitch and I don’t harbor any ill feelings towards you. I’m just very hurt by N.’s actions.
And this was my response…
Thank you for reaching out! I’m really sorry you’re hurting… from one girl to another, I REALLY appreciate your candidness. I’m sorry you’re heartbroken by a guy that doesn’t deserve you. The world is full of selfish men, so the only thing us ladies can do is keep an eye out for each other.
Everything N. was saying was just incredibly bizarre, dumbfounded, hasty, and not to mention sketchy. I don’t think he’s in love with me, but probably just likes the idea of a girl far away from everything he’s every known. It’s easy to romanticize something if they’re not your reality. Bottom line is, boys don’t change, only their needs do.
This isn’t about you, and what you’re not bringing into his life and your relationship and home with him. Or what his ex didn’t bring into his life. Or however he thinks that coming to California will be an exciting new change with a new girl in a new world. It’s about him being an unhappy human being, and sucking the devotion out of women like you.
How could he so passively say you’re okay with him coming out here to see me? Ridiculous. What ever happened to chivalry?
I’m really glad you found out who he really is.
All the best,
Filed under: assholes, stilettos | Tags: assholes, douchebags, exbfs, jeffrey campbell, Litas, shoe therapy
X: today i lost my brother he was 32. i’m writing you to tell you how much i love you and that i’m so sorry for the way i treated you. i’m not so foolish as to ask for your forgiveness or think that you would give it. but i’m in so much pain i just needed to tell you that i love you. idk i’m not thinking i just reach out to those i care most for in this world when i feel like i’m dying. goodbye-
P: i’ve been through your pain, and i understand how much it hurts, and how lonely you must feel. but you can save your sorries, because you are the cruelest, vainest, most selfish person i have ever known, and if you continue to treat people the way you do, you’re going to die alone.
X: my brother just killed himself and you tell me i’m going to die alone if dot dot dot. there is no need to kick me why i’m down or to address our your issues with my failures. I contacted you because of your experience in this process and my general affection for your person. if you want the truth of the matter i don’t feel guilty for the way i acted and with this letter of yours the way i treated you becomes retroactively valid. there is a small gradient of people with experiences similar to my own now. of this gradient there is a small portion who are my friends but alas there is only one who i’ve loved and that is you. the thing about hindsight is that you only see what has happened but you forgo the future and how it makes the purely contingent necessary. i would like to speak with you . here is my number 239-233 -7288 call or don’t call but know i’m not the same person not after today.
prank calls highly encouraged.
P: i don’t care what you would like. you’re affection means nothing to me. you treated me like shit, and i have no sympathy for you. so fuck you. and fuck your pain. you’re a shit human being. and you can deal with your pain alone.
X: is this b/c you flew across the country to see me & when you got back home i couldn’t be bothered to, ummm like, call & talk to you? that wasn’t halal , i guess? : P
my bad P dawg that must of hurt & cost a lot of monies.
it’s okay P___ I forgive you for what you’ve said
Filed under: assholes | Tags: asshole, coffee shop, conscience, girlfriends, moral police, San Francisco, Seattle, Thanksgiving
We had an arrangement derived from the inconvenient fact that you lived in Seattle. In between three degrees of separation, we met at a bar when you were in town for the holidays over a year ago. Every couple months, your 206 area code made my heart flutter, like a naughty sensation, and then you were in town for a few days, and we were inseparable. You were a tourist in my city, in my room, and I was your tour guide with the interesting forgettable factoids. Like a refreshing breath mint, you were this seasonal break from the eligible bachelors of San Francisco. Your infrequent visits were like mini vacations from my blah-blah-blah life. Thanksgiving, I was thankful for your latest text: “In town, want to see you.”
So I responded, and waited, waited and waited.
The Blow – Hey Boy
Three days later, we’re sitting in a coffee shop, I’m playing with your hair, giggling, rambling, flirting, trying to quill that little voice scratching the back of mind– “he used to be so much more enthusiastic to see me.” Little did I know that you had been wrestling the moral police all week, trying to win, hoping to lose, and finally, giving in, just a little bit. Hours of drinking and dancing flew by, it was 1:00 AM when I invited you over…
“Are you propositioning me?” you asked.
Of course I was, like every other time. You said, “I’m trying to behave. I”m sorta seeing someone.”
B. You’ve got a girlfriend.
But you still wanted to see me. To see that if you did decide to not listen to your conscience, that I would be an accomplice to your guilt trip. Perhaps you’re a last minute gentleman, but I think you’re a last minute selfish bastard who just needed to know that I would still sleep with him. Otherwise, you would have told me the truth, and we could have been friends.
Filed under: assholes, breakups, getting even | Tags: assholes, cat shit, liars, little black dress, love, revenge, self-loathing, shop therapy
The next morning, I woke up to a messy room, puffy eyes, and a knot in the back of my throat. I had sifted through the pieces of the relationship all nite trying to deduce where the screw-up came from, and I was fed up. I rolled out of bed, took some vitamins, showered, put on a pretty new dress, a pair of heels, and a fitted blazer. Then I cleaned the litter-boxes, and triple Ziploc bagged the contents. Next, I placed his underwear that he had left in my hamper in a another Ziploc bag and washed my hands, and placed both bags in my purse. I had a mission. When I arrived at his door, it was wide open, and he wasn’t home, but his roommate was. I explained to him what had happened; his roommate hadn’t heard a thing about it. He said he was sorry, he had no idea, and that I deserved an explanation. It hadn’t been more than fifteen minutes when he walked into their small studio in the Tenderloin. Wide eyed, he raised his eyebrows and said, “What’s up?” I said, “I’m here for my things; the belt you borrowed and the sweater I gave you, and here’s your dirty underwear. And I deserve an explanation.” He asked if I wanted to get some coffee. We walked to a coffee shop next to Powell.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
“How did this happen?”
“I don’t want to be with you anymore. I realized I was unhappy.”
“You said you loved me,” I believed it.
“I don’t know why I said that. I never loved you.” He lied, the son of a bitch looked straight into my eyes and said he loved me. “What can I say, I’m a very codependent person. What I liked the most about you was that you cared about me.”
I quenched my tears and wished I had never met him. “You’re a bad person. You used me physically, emotionally. You consumed my time and my heart. I trusted you because you asked me to.”
He grew frustrated. “What do you want me to say? How can I make it up to you? Can I buy you a new pair of shoes?”
My stomach turned. “I would have been satisfied with sleeping with you once and never seeing you again.”
“Well, what does that say about you?” The nerve. “Are you done making me feel guilty? I’m going to go home.”
I wasn’t. But there was no logic or compassion to him. He got up and left, and only looked back once from the corner of his eye. I wouldn’t have heard an explanation that would have made me forgive him. After all, he was a selfish, greedy artist who only painted paintings of himself and spent his idle time setting the timer on his camera and photographing himself. He mentioned he had an over-genius IQ on several occasions, and he was obsessed with his own intelligence. But somewhere deep inside, the edge of which only glistened when he was blackout drunk was pure self-loathing arrogance. It was clear at this moment that I realized what he had realized. That my love for him could not makeup for the hatred he had for himself. Not that there are any excuses for such pathetic inhumanity, but that it did exist.
I watched him walk up the street and turn the corner. I sat in that coffee shop for half an hour, contemplating, collecting all these broken pieces. I felt cold. So I went to Benetton and bought a beautiful knit mohair coat. And then I met up with West, a bubbly, fabulous, adorable ray of gay sunshine. And we came to the unanimous decision that I would need a new black dress. So we went to a trendy little boutique near Chinatown called Shotwell. I bought the sluttiest black dress they had in the smallest size. And then we hopped in a cab and went back to the Tenderloin, because I wasn’t satisfied.
For nearly twenty minutes, West and I waited downstairs until someone let us into his building. On the fifth floor, West held the elevator, my purse, and my shopping bags, while I ran to his front door with the bag of cat shit and a note. I dumped the entire contents on his front door, and left a note on top that said, “My sincerest apologies to Jeremy” (his roommate).
I ran back to the elevator and West and I made a dash for it.
Filed under: assholes, love, luv, psychology | Tags: assholes, college education, Dr. Epstein, heartbreakers, how to fall in love 101, love, luv, symbiotic relationships
He is waiting for me–at the park, on the street, in a bar, at a show, at the art murmur, at the venue, at the coffee shop, at the farmer’s market, on the bus, at the used bookstore, in my heart. Eventually, we will get the timing right and like two balls in a game of pool we will fall in the same corner pocket, like two birds with one stone we will both fall to the ground, like my six lucky lotto numbers I always bid on that one day will win the jackpot. He is the jackpot I’m waiting for. He is the thunder to my lightning. But I’m not much of a gambler, and I rarely approach strangers, so I wait for the assholes to come to me.
I’ve got a penchant for heartbreakers and symbiotic relationships, the kind of boys that only call you after ten pm. The kind of boys that are just tally marks on my bedpost, no romantic illusions about falling love, just getting by by getting off, satisfactory satisfaction. I wish my liberal college education offered “How to Fall in Love 101.” There is nothing that psychology cannot quantify: “How many people are out there that you can build a strong, beautiful, lasting love with. And the answer is, 350,000,” says Dr. Epstein, the professor of this course. Maybe I need more soul gazing, the love aura, and more invasion of my personal space to truly grasp what love is and how to fall in it.
Filed under: assholes, bitches, internet dating, losers | Tags: assholes, beer, bitches, casual sex, clicking, guitars, internet dating, okcupid, park, party girl, sex, shallow, spliff, vain, vapid
You said I would have been fun if I weren’t such a bitch. I said keep going. And so you continued with a string of adjectives–vain, shallow, vapid… qualities that I inherently glow with around people like you. We have nothing in common. You said I was a “party girl.” You are into girls like that, but I bet girls like that are only into guys like you when they are on the of brink of alcohol poisoning. You said I was basically what you expected, but these sentiments were not mutual. I misconstrued your internet profile as something on the borderline of cynical and cocky, but you had enough self-confidence in your mannerisms, speech, and stride to win a grand prize in “Loser that girls never notice.”
You’re building this “new guitar.” You tried to show me how it works. It didn’t make any sound. I was not impressed, and I told you so. As a wacky contraption in an art museum it might have seemed innovative. As a musical instrument it just seemed ridiculous. Maybe I just don’t get it, fine.
We got a 6 pack and went to the park. What do you do for fun? Nothing. You haven’t drank in two weeks. Then why are you even interested in me? You’ve coined me as a “Party Girl,” you’re so into those. But why would a girl that likes to have fun be into you? You’ve got this fine notion (because I told you) that I have a thing for assholes. You call yourself an asshole. You say, “I’ve got a theory you like assholes, because you like the way they fuck.” That could be true, because assholes get more practice. But they’ve also have a way with words, and they use it to their advantage. Talking to you was as enjoyable as going to the dentist.
You asked me, “Where is the craziest place you’ve had sex?” We are just not clicking. This question is inappropriate. I refuse to answer; you first. You tell me about your exgf that would call you intermitently inbetween boyfriends and arrange to have you fuck her in public–once in someone’s frontdoor stairway, once on a pile of broken bottles under a bridge. Well, that made me feel slightly uncomfortable. Eventually, thankfully, the park got cold; we smoked a spliff; you tried to invite me in, but I said I wanted to get home to watch Lost with my bff. You walked me to the bus stop, and you asked me what I thought of you. I said you were bloggable. You said, “You would be pretty fun if you weren’t such a bitch.” I offered to shake your hand; you walked away.