Sunday, December 19, 2010

My Issues with Harvard Football, Part V

Its now April and, to my knowledge, I've cut all ties with Harvard Crazy. Blocked him online, on Facebook, on e-mail...everything. So when my phone went off at 430 in the morning with a Facebook update, I'm assuming it's either one of my buddies in Cali or in Europe.

No. No.

Dudes, look. I'm all for stalkers. Stalking is like, my second job. I have been able to find people with a first name, a shoe size, and the place they worked when they were 17. Okay, I get it. But this is like, beyond all levels of shady, because this is burning fast into the desperation lane. You don't stalk people who want nothing to do with you - unless they are your arch nemesis from grammar school and you like seeing how fat they got on Facebook, WHOLE other fucking story. But in general, you don't stalk people who are mildly terrified of you. Or, if you do, YOU KEEP IT TO YOURSELF.

Text message:

Subject: "You probably hate me".

"I'd just like you to know that you were right about me. I have tried dating for the last year and keep getting the same response you gave me. That I'm a nice guy and everything but just not for the girl. I don't get it. I am not an asshole, I am a good guy, I may not be an Abercrombie model but I try to be a good person. But you are right. I come on too strong, I scare women away, and I have pushed every girl away the last year. I cared about you so much, and I still get an ache in my stomach when I hear your name. So I hope you find some solace in the fact that you were right - I am going to be alone forever and I have no hope for personal relationships at all.

Dave"

Awesome. I'm going to walk in to open the bar tomorrow and a 6'5" dude is going to be HANGING IN THE VESTIBULE with "SW" carved into his chest from a wine key. FUCKING, FABULOUS.

Now I'm stressed because the guy typed everything as if he were submitting it for an English exam. No spelling errors. No sign of drunk stupidity. Honest to goodness hopelessness. And my very small heart felt a little bit.

"Mother fucker," I rolled out of bed, picked up my laptop and unblocked his e-mail address.

"Dave,

I got your message on Facebook. Seriously, you need to chill. You are right - you are a great guy and have much to offer a girl. Just because it didn't work out with me doesn't mean it won't with someone else. You're still young and have loads going for you. You just haven't met the right person yet. Neither have I. I've dated around a lot this year (way to blow my fucking cover about basically being engaged to an NHL player, no big deal) and I'm still single, and I think I'm a good catch (totally not egotistical considering I'm talking the guy off a literal roof right now), and I'm single. It happens. I just haven't met someone, neither have you. You just need to relax and stop putting os much pressure on yourself and on the girl. If it works it works, if it doesn't it doesn't. DOn't be discouraged. Everyone goes through it."

Yeah, basically this e-mail was my "get out of jail free card" for my one way ticket to hell. My good deed to save a life. I send the e-mail, and I go to bed, totally stressing this dude is in some serious self inflicted danger.

E-mail the next morning:

"HAHA, wow, I was pretty wasted! Sorry for the drunk e-mail!"

Drunk e-mail? I'm sorry, I thought that was a GOD DAMN SUICIDE NOTE. Drunk e-mail? You typed more correctly than I do when I'm DEAD SOBER. Jesus Christ dude, at least own up to your despair! Here I'm worried this dude is like, strapping a bomb to himself and blowing it up in Penn Station as a dedication to me, and he's all "whoops had too much tequilla!" Seriously? Fuck.

Dude basically wrote a suicide note to get me to talk to him. And then LAUGHED ABOUT IT. I mean, I've done some fucked up shit in my life to get a guy's attention, but I haven't quite threatened to old "gonna slit my wrists if you don't take me out to dinner" thing yet.

I put him back on block on all levels. He texts me again a month later, and I finally choose not to respond. I'm done. DONE. DONE with Harvard football and the crazies who apparently play it. DONE with Match.com and the psychopaths who want to date me. Over it, past it, never looking back. DONE.

Until I'm not. And then, I'm not.

No comments:

Post a Comment