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Mean but true.

March 11, 2010

Women are callous bitches. This is news to no one. What makes us callous bitches is the fact that we just don’t fall in love the way men do.

I ended up dating this guy Torry – well, I say “dating.” You know how men will have sex just to get laid? Women, and I’m not the only one, will have sex just to be polite. The result in either case is that one person chalks it up as a drunken debacle and the other falls desperately in love and becomes a stalker. I wasn’t the one who had fallen desperately in love; hence “dating.”

So I was “dating” this guy against my will because I didn’t know how to get out of it without being rude. In colloquial terms I was just stringing him along. Every time we went out for a beer, or ran into each other at Foodland, I had this feeling like you might have watching someone jump out of a helicopter. Like: they think they have a parachute but you know they actually don’t.

Torry and I are having lunch, and it’s a special occasion, so we’re over at Denny’s. Special occasion means he has a coupon there. So once we’re all seated and Donna has brought our order, I can tell that this is going to be the day he takes that great leap of faith, right out of that helicopter, and starts reaching for the rip cord.

It’s worse than I had even imagined.

He launches into his confession. Tears are streaming into his Zesty Nachos. Donna is eyeing us from across the diner, afraid to even refill my coffee. Torry tells me that if we can’t be together he doesn’t have anything left to live for and he’s going to kill himself. (!) This particular scenario I thought was reserved for people who are actually dating, which in my mind we most emphatically are not. So, I do the only thing I can do: I reach under the table, slowly, slowly pull out my cell phone, and I delete his name.

I hate my cell phone. I could happpily burn it tomorrow, because you know who invented cell phones? Satan. Satan invented cell phones, and then he gave one to you, and then he he gave one to your boss. I pretend my cell phone is still a land line, so if I don’t answer it’s because a) I’m busy, or b) I just don’t want to talk to you. For instance:

I never want to talk to that guy who calls me at the crack of dawn, pretending to be some one I know. The first time he called was last Christmas at six o’clock in the morning. I live in Hawaii now, but most of my family is on the East coast, so I figured it was someone who had forgotten about the time difference. I answered the phone thinking it’s my grandfather, because he’s like “Hi sweetie! How are you?”

I go, “I’m fine, how are you?”

“I’m good. I’m real good.” (???) He says “I miss you.”

“…Oh…”

“So…what are you wearing right now?”

I saved his number and programmed it as “Don’t Answer.”

“Never Answer Ever” is I guy I met at the pub: “If I were going to kill someone, I would hit them on the head and drown them in a bucket of salt water. Then I would throw the body in the ocean, because it’s always the lungs that give away homicide.”

“Answer Not” wrote me a love song about wanting to pick my flower.

And “Do Not Answer” is this little dude, Lachino, who picked me up hitch hiking into Lahaina to get my liquor card for work. Should I have been out hitch hiking? Probably not. Should I give my phone number to lecherous weirdos? No. But I’ve never had any talent for lying, even about my phone number, especially when I’m getting a ride with some one I definitely should have let pass me by. In that situation I try to be as placating as possible. Call me a weak willed woman, but I prefer the term “Not a Judo Master.”

So Don’t Answer, Do Not Answer, Answer Not, and Never Answer Ever are all already taken, so I have to change Torry’s name to No Respondo. Donna finally works up the nerve to come over, so I quickly try to be all nice, like, “Oh, Torry…don’t say that…” because I don’t want to be caught out as a bitch in public. Sympathetically I mouth the words “check please,” and the Donna nods like she knows exactly what’s going on. And she probably does. She’s been working at Denny’s for awhile.

I magnanimously let Torry pick up the tab because he’d be even more dejected if I didn’t. We can’t even use the coupon because he cried all over it. I get him out to the car and with a pat on the back I take off like I’m Batman: you know, you look the other way for a split second and he’s gone? Batman gets away with that because he doesn’t have a cell phone. Batman doesn’t get text messages. And he sure as shit doesn’t give his private number out to crazy ass stalkers like some sort of moron. After two days of ignoring No Respondo, I start getting text messages like “Woke up coverd in puke. Stil alive. unfortunately.” (Unfortunately indeed!)

This guy is trying to make me feel bad, and I guess I should a little. There is a better way to deal with this situation than ducking behind the papaya display when I see him at Foodland. I’m convinced that if I wear my sunglasses and walk really fast that he won’t recognize me, and that if I’m checking my phone at the same time, I’m actually invisible. If I were a better person I would have just told him to fuck off from the beginning, and I would not be getting these text messages:

“Saw u @ foodland. wnt home n swallowed a bunch of pills. didnt work.”

Or:

“A taker takes and walks away, never looking back, thinking only of thierself. thougt u were dif. thougt u cared.”

Well, Torry, maybe if you weren’t being a whiny little bitch.

I mean, I do get it. This guy is so upset that he really wants to end his life. But I can’t help thinking that might be a little more convenient for me.

I could have made some better choices, sure. I was new to the island, I didn’t have any friends. I put up with him for as long as I did because I needed to feel like I had some semblance of a life here. (Also, he had that coupon.) But it’s not like I can turn back now, say “I’m sorry I was a callous bitch but I still hate you, don’t call me. Ever.” Right now there’s really no way out of this without making it even worse.

After a while he stops leaving me vicious voice mails, the text messaging trickle to a halt. I notice that I don’t run into him at Foodland any more, or anywhere else. No one I talk to has seen him, and none of our mutual acquaintances have heard from him at all. At the time it all seemed like some annoying joke, but when you get right down to it, this is a person who came to me for help, in whatever form, and I completely blew him off. It’s at the point now where I don’t even know if he’s still alive.

Then I see him over at Starbucks, eating oatmeal. So, not only is he a melodramatic little prick, he’s a fucking liar.

This is why I vowed to become more callous, more heartless, with every passing day, because trying to be polite is just a bunch of bullshit. For me this resolution is easy since I was like that to begin with.

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