My Sad Love Story*

You may remember my unboyfriend from the blog “Excerpt from the Unboyfriend,” a book I have been slowly working on that looks like it may never get finished. Someone will probably steal the title and write a bestselling novel and I will still be working on the chapter called “the Unboyfriend” because it is obviously a never ending chapter and quite possibly the answer to the never ending question of “why are you single?”

I think, probably, the answer is him. I will try to make this saga short, not like that Kymani debacle. I met this guy online. He was quiet and reclusive and everything I never wanted. I was working very hard to get myself back together after a long exhausting relationship that taught me a lot about what I didn’t want in my life. So I took everything I didn’t want in my life and used it to find someone I just wanted to have sex with. In hindsight, that was a terrible fucking idea, but at the time, I thought I was a genius. I figured if I found someone who snored I would never fall in love because I slept next to a snorer before and I had visions of homicide dancing in my head. If I found someone who had young children, I would never fall in love because I don’t want to have any more kids. I don’t want to raise any more kids and I definitely do not want to deal with anybody’s temperamental mother. If I found someone who smoked cigarettes, I would never fall in love. I hate cigarette smoke. I only to only go to bars that are non-smoking because if I go to smoke filled bars, when I get home and go to sleep and the smoke settles, it settles in my lungs and I find myself hacking all night unable to breathe. If I dated someone who drank all the time, I would never fall in love. I grew up around alcoholics. I have a family filled with them. I had a kid by one. Nothing good will come of falling in love with a drinker.

That was pretty much my dealbreaker list and also the list that I went by to pick the person I was going to be sleeping with. I would pick someone who I would 100% not be able to love for all the reasons listed above. And I didn’t have to look very long. It was like I manifested him into my life. I didn’t even know I was good at that until I met him, my future unboyfriend. He was strong and well built. He had tattoos and strong hands. He worked…all the time. He wasn’t sweet or emotional. He would never bring me flowers. And, most importantly, he snored, he drank, he smoked, and his youngest kid was one. He was perfectly imperfect for me and conveniently lived in my neighborhood, around the corner. We wouldn’t spend time on dates. We both wanted one thing and one thing only. Companionship. Carnal companionship.

The first time we were together was amazing. It was like we were meant to sleep together. I should have run then, because something so bad for you shouldn’t feel so good, but then again, I guess that’s what heroin users think and they keep going back for more too. But it eventually turned into something more. It turned into seeing each other a couple times a week. It turned into turning on a movie and not watching it because we were talking for three hours instead of watching the movie or having sex which was not how it was supposed to be. It turned into nights where we would fall asleep together and just hold each other. It turned into he was the only person I was sleeping with and I was the only person he was sleeping with. It turned into love, but according to him, it only turned in to love for me.

He still lacked emotion and would not admit that he had any kind of feelings for me. And so I ended it. More than once. And every time I did, I would stand strong and believe that he would come around and realize he loved me too. But he never did. I would end it and two weeks would go by and I would get a text from him out of the blue. “How’s work?” and I would answer “Same shit. Different day.” And we would pick up where we left off and start all over again until I would start getting too emotional and I would avoid him. He would always know it was coming and would say, “you’re leaving again aren’t you?” And I would tell him yes and disappear. We wouldn’t talk for two weeks or a month and then out of the blue, I would get a text from him that says, “How’s work?” and I would reply, “Same shit. Different day.” And again we would pick up where we left off. Sometimes I would try to talk to him about why he can’t just admit he has feelings, but he’s not a talker and I’m not supposed to care because I picked him so I wouldn’t love him and it backfired terribly. The last time I left him, it was for good. We were both seeing other people. And although he didn’t care that I was seeing other people, I cared that he was. I cared too much. I wanted to burn down his house, and flatten his tires, and hers. I was not a rational human being. I’ve had other times in my life where I had been betrayed, but it never hurt like this did and he wasn’t even really betraying me, because we weren’t “together.” But he had my heart in a way nobody ever had and he understood me better than I understood myself. We were both fucked in the head and we worked well together. Except he still had all those deal breakers that I had picked him for and they, all of a sudden, started to be insignificant. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. I could sit next to him while he was smoking and was un-phased by it. I didn’t care that he had a few shots every day after work. He would pick me up a bottle of vodka and he had his tequila and we would take shots together. He introduced me to his little one and I wanted to hug and squeeze the cuteness out of him. And when we would sleep, I was perfectly comfortable with him snoring in my ear as long as his arms were around me. I was totally fucked.

I knew I had to end it. Permanently. So I did. He knew it was coming days before I decided to do it. He mentioned it and I denied it. And when it happened, he said, “I knew you were leaving again.”  When I asked him how, he said, he knows me and he knows how I start acting. I still don’t know, but he knew and he was right. I left. The last time I saw him was February 8th. The last time I talked to him was February 18th. Both of those days I would never forget which is kind of ironic because I usually can never remember. And I keep waiting for him to text me, because that’s what we do. I leave, he comes back. I leave, he comes back. So I’m starting to think that’s why I am single. I keep waiting for him to message, but hoping that he doesn’t so I can move on with my life, because for the most part, I think that’s what I want. And I thought maybe we were done for good. I even started feeling like it would be ok if we were and then out of the blue, 72 days later, he texted me because Prince died.

 

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