I AM A MAGNET; HEAR ME ROAR

But, apparently, not enough of a magnet for some people. Some people apparently want to be attached at the hip for 24 hours a day, seven days a week. And that, physically, is impossible, Lucy. ;-)

I also appear to be a magnet for bad relationships, and I'm seriously considering becoming a monk. My head is already shaved. I'm halfway there. I beseech all that is holy to give me the will to remain celibate and to spurn the pleasures and wiles of unbalanced women. (And, no, I'm not talking about tightrope-walking women, here. I'm talking the other kind of unbalanced. You know, the fun kind of unbalanced in which the woman is clingy and needy and stubborn and is a supremely spoiled fucking brat. The fun kind.)

Here is the latest tribulation of my besmirched dating life. I have no qualms whoatsoever about writing about this tripe on the Internet. I'm pissed and bemused and boggled...and, sad to say, a little trepidatious. Who knows what people will do, sometimes? Naw. Fuck that. She's nuts, but not that nuts.

I just--five minutes ago--got done giving the girl who I've been seeing damned near every day for the last three weeks her clothes and her leftover food from the dinner we enjoyed together yesterday.

She was pissed and she wore gargantuan sunglasses and her face was frozen in a tight expression, her formerly-supple lips pinched tight with...dare I say?...malevolence. I headed to the fridge to get her her leftovers and I said, You wanna tell me what the hell happened? Just get the food, she'd said. I asked again. She repeated, just get the food. I gave her the food and told her, well, good luck. She went pshw and said, "Whatever," and walked out, leaving the door open. I held back Lou and slammed the door and muttered, "Whatever? Fucking psycho bitch."

'Twas really amazing the shift in her mood in 24 hours. Here's the story:

Yesterday, we had gone to the Detroit Auto Show and then, afterwards, we had dined at a place called Southern Fires, a restaurant in the D that specializes in soul food. The food was good and the conversation seemed good, as well. We went home and she diddled on the computer for a spell, writing her MySpace pals and checking her email. I lay on the bed and looked at a book. At 8:00, I told her that I had to go; I was going to go bowling with my friend--the one that I had pretty-much ditched a couple of weeks ago to spend time with Her Highness.

She'd adopted her annoying little girl voice and asked me, "You're kicking me out again? To go on your date with your friend?" I'd grown quite fucking weary of this "kicking me out" line. It had gotten old. In fact, the first time that she had said it, I'd figured that she'd been joking. Boy! Was I wrong! ;-) "Yeah," I said, "I'm kicking you out, hon." So, she left. And I thought all was good. And I got off the eggshells upon which I had been walking and I breathed deeply.

[As I type this, after sending her a retaliatory text message to one of her acidic texts, telling her to take care and seek professional help for her megalomania, and peace, my cell phone is buzzing with rapid-fire texts, the first of which informs me that she doesn't have a problem and doesn't need help, what she needs is a man with an average-sized dick who can keep it up and who knows how to use it. She seems to forget the three nights when I did keep it up, well enough to fuck her twice each night. Classy! My question is, besides the pretty face, who the hell wants to fuck some paunchy overweight little bitch who orders--yes, orders--one to get on one's back so that she can straddle and is all me-me-me and me-me-me? And, oh, me-me-me. The brain is the greatest aphrodisiac. That is as true as an arrow. And her personality is fucking ugly. That, too, is as true as an arrow. Anyway, back to the story. And, believe it or not, this is the truth.]

My friend and I went bowling and she sent me a text after I'd been there for about an hour. To paraphrase, the text said that she apologized for being persistent and wanting to spend so much time with me but she really enjoys my company and, you see, she is lonely and it's hard to be away from her family but she'd give me my space (something we'd talked about) and she said that she would call me next week and to have fun bowling. I answered with something like Don't be ridiculous, hon, call whenever you want. She answered that, no, that was what she was going to do, that she'd call me on Monday. I'd texted, okay, that's fine. Take care and peace.

Later, she texted that she'd meant the Monday before April 8th, the day in which I'd said that might accompany her to Las Vegas for her mother's wedding, a gaffe that I have come to regret. [Hey! I said maybe! Which she'd then taken as gospel and had expressed irritation when I'd had second thoughts about going with a woman--a bitch on top of it--halfway across the country for her mother's wedding after knowing her for a total--in April--of four months. I am not making this shit up. Seriously.] So, anyway, she texted Monday, before April 8th, and I, at this point, threw my proverbial hands in the air, buh-bye, and had told my friend that this chick was nutzo, to which he readily agreed. Later, she sent another text saying that she was too young and too pretty to be sitting home alone and that she had a dinner date and good night. I'd thought, good fucking riddance and I'd turned my cell off. Two missed calls later, she'd texted me, at 1:35AM, that she needed to come to my home and collect her belongings. Her "belongings" consisted of her leftover food from Southern Fires and a hair scarf and some flannel sleeping shorts. God.

I've addressed already the scene in which she'd collected her belongings and the dick-smack text that she'd--safely tucked away in her Nissan Altima--later leveled at me. While I've been typing this, she has sent no less than 7 text messages--I've heard my phone buzzing. You, Dear Reader, know about as much as I do regarding the content of these latest texts, but I'm sure that they're not filled with butterflies and rainbows and good thoughts. Shall we investigate? Sure. Why not? Turn that frown upside-down and come on, kids. =)

To summarize: She has called me an idiot who doesn't realize that he has lost the best thing that will ever happen to him, she will miss my dog but not me, that I can go to Yahoo Personals and send emails to a million other people who aren't interested in me, that she hopes I am satisfied (which I indeed am :P), that I am a faggot with a tiny weak dick, that I myself am weak, that I need to read books on how to fuck, that I am an unattractive pessimist who drowns himself in his failures, who is himself, in fact, a failure...wait, there's more. "The real reason why I broke it off was because you have a tiny dick, you don't know how to use it, you are cheap, sheltered and a pessimist.... I wasn't worried about you spending time with me because I have plenty of men to fill that position."

[I have a quick aside, here: If I'm all that (and a bag of chips) why was she ever even with me?]

Whew! That's quite a laundry list, eh? You want to know why I feel that she "broke it off," an event to which I get down on my knees and thank the Good Lord in the sky? I think she broke it off because she sensed yesterday that I was thisclose to ending it myself. I think that, in her mind, she is still that obese smart-girl from elementary school and high school who never felt like she fit in and thus had to strive for a materialistic existence to prove her worth. (And, Jesus Christ, is she ever materialistic!) And I think that her massive ego can't take rejection. I can see that as plain as day. She talks about her ex who is still emailing her and texting her every day (which I tend to disbelieve). I've seen pictures of the guy--he can't be that much of a hapless tool, can he be? Is she making up the fact that she has "plenty of men to fill that position [of future husband]?" Magic Eight-Ball says "yes." Who the fuck would be able to tolerate her for more than a week? I'm the type of guy who bends over backwards for people and tries to keep everything on an even keel, oftentimes at the expense of my own happiness--I wish I weren't.

I feel sorry for the cunt, in a way. She'll never be happy and she'll never be content. I bristle at her glossing me "cheap," though. She didn't pay for a God damned thing. Ever. I didn't buy her a laptop and/or a wide-screen TV and a PS3 but, then again, I'm not a fucking idiot who feels that the way to love is by lavishing another with gifts and flowers and expensive meals. And, I'll reiterate, I truly feel sorry for any sap who falls into her sticky web.

So, anyway. After all of this, you know what I'll reply via text message to her? It's right below:







Did you get it? Do you think that's a wise response? I do. I do. I want nothing more to do with her. Fucking nut.

I'll reply here, instead, in twenty words or less:

"Bitch? Buh-bye. Take your egotistical, megalomaniacal fat ass and get the fuck out of my life. Forever. Thanks. =)"

She probably thinks that her vitriolic texts (fucking pussy can't even talk to me face-to-face) are going to make me sad and depressed and feel like a worthless slug. No. Nope. Nothing could be further from the truth. I recognize the angry words that she used to be the defense mechanisms that they are. She is, indeed, the one with the problem. They bounce off of me and fall harmlessly to the floor. So, am I sad? Hell no. As I write this, I am beaming from ear to ear. Dear Alicia gave me the best gift I could ever receive: She fucking left.