Thursday, April 1, 2010

On the "Rocky" Method of Dating

About a month ago, I blocked ex-whosit number bazillion. Not with the middle school attempt at trying to get him to talk to me about why he's a douchebag by blocking him on AIM and then talking to all of his friends; I full-on blocked all methods of contact. I filtered my e-mail so his e-mails get sent directly to the trash; I de-friended and blocked him on pretty much every social networking tool available; I deleted his phone number and then went through and erased all calls and text messages to and from his phone, and then I sent him an e-mail telling him exactly why I was doing it and further instructions not to attempt to contact me for at least a year, and the addendum that after a year the only possible reason he could want to contact me would be nostalgia, which is "not worth the price of a long-distance phone call." (Yes, I said that. Isn't it terribly clever?)
The reason I did this was because, despite at least four conversations in which I literally begged him not to talk to me about other girls he was now seeing, he insisted on doing so. He did it very sneakily, using the method of pretending to talk to me about my life, mostly talking about his life, and then telling me how important I was to him and how much he really desperately needed my advice. I may be slow on the uptake, but after four conversations of this I finally caught on to the fact that he does not actually give a shit about me. These conversations almost always occurred immediately after he had been dumped by someone else, and almost always ended with him desperately trying to keep talking to me while I desperately was trying to end the conversation. And sometimes with me crying.
Today, however, I checked my e-mail's trash, because I have been waiting about three months to hear from some literary magazines, and I wanted to make sure they didn't accidentally get marked as spam, just in case. (I think this is a typical procrastination method for writers who are stuck at the pivotal scene that kind of freaking scares them to put on paper, but I could be wrong.) And in it was an e-mail from ex-whosit number bazillion. I probably should have deleted it permanently without reading it, but I used to be in love with the guy, so of course I opened it.
Now, clearly, my life is NOT an episode of Sex and the City. Peter likes to argue that it's really a lot more like an episode of Seinfeld, with me as Elaine Benes (hair included), and the rest of the world as the scary place that is Larry David's mind. So, of course, this was not some kind of love e-mail filled with poetic sentences about how perfect I am and how sorry he is and how much he has changed and never wants to live without me again.
No. Instead, this is what it contained:


I know you don't want to hear from me, but I couldn't resist. Hope you enjoy.

-[ex-whosit number bazillion]

What Fascinates Me About Professional Wrestling:

[rest of e-mail redacted to spare your sanity and also because I didn't read it; I totally stopped when I got to "professional wrestling" and then took a really long shower]

I am so not even kidding. This actually happened. He seriously broke the silence I imposed on him in an attempt to rescue my wounded heart from the depths of narcissistic amour in order to send me his random f*%$ing essay on professional wrestling.
I'm going to assume my readership is at least nominally garnered in the IQ department and skip ahead to the part where I am now very carefully and extremely casually dating an aerospace engineering student who takes me mini-golfing and offers to change the oil in my car.

I really, really don't ever want my past failures to affect my belief that one day I will be able to find someone who is not only nice but who might actually support me in most of the things I want for myself and maybe even give me an orgasm once in a while. But I really am beginning to feel like I am not ever going to win this fight, and lately I can't even come up with a reason why I should keep getting back up after I get knocked down. I have stories that can totally top this one, like the one about genius ex-boyfriend number two and his coke habit that I didn't know about, or the one about ex-boyfriend number three and the time he killed a rabbit at the golf course and ate it raw (yes, really). Or what about ex-whosit number bazillion and two, and how we hung out regularly, just as friends, for six months, and then one beautiful December evening he asked me to stop seeing other guys, spent the night at my house, and then never talked to me ever again?
But I don't want any more stories about narcissistic bunny-killing yeo-licking soul-destroying men who really could have been something but, you know, weren't. I just want someone to hang out with on Friday nights. But lately even thinking about something as simple as that is enough to make me curl up in bed and suck my thumb. How many times do I have to get back up before they at least ring the goddamn bell?

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