I think I'm doing something wrong.
Well, let me clarify: there are many, many things I do wrong; but I think I might be doing something really, really, mind-blowingly W-R-O-N-G where men are concerned.
I find myself flummoxed, once again, by behavior both strange and mildly disturbing.
Like, say, someone sleeping over and having a perfectly lovely time, if my interpretation of, umm, the universal language of pleasure, is on point. And then the next morning, when I'm graciously walking him out, this someone says, as I put on my kick-ass metallic silver, wedge clogs, "Those are the ugliest fucking shoes I've ever seen."
When I called him on it two days later, he was outraged because he thought we were in an "open and honest relationship."
Or take, as another example, the one who asked for my number, sent cute texts for two days, quoting Shel Silverstein, no less, and then vanished into thin air. After, of course, making one date and flaking a few hours before we were to meet; then making a second date and never showing.
In related news, there's the one I dated for two years, who flitted in and out of my life at will for the last six months. I, of course, was an accomplice in the flit-fuck game; I guess at some point, though, it became irritating. Only because of the agonizing and hand-wringing and anxiety-ridden phone calls I would get six weeks after poking me. Which went something like this:
Me: Hey, great to hear from you. Wanna grab a drink?
Agita-head: Yeah, I don't know; I don't think that's a good idea. It doesn't end well.
Me: Funny, you seem pretty happy at the end of the night.
Agita-head: No, it's great...I just don't know if it's the best thing for us to be doing at this point.
And on and on, round and round, in circles; pacing back and forth past the quivering mass of developmentally arrested, quivering, pussy-ass pile of bullshit he vomits up on me following every single one of our encounters.
I finally tell him, I have to go, got lots of work to do.
Next thing I know, I'm blindsided by a request to friend me on Facebook.
So I text to ask why he's trying to friend me on Facebook. Why not? he says. Because we're not friends in the real world, I say. Sorry you feel that way, I rescind my request, he says. I hit delete and bathe in the deliciousness of my newfound Putting My Foot Down posture.
Because the bottom line is that although I'm probably doing something vastly and quite devastatingly WRONG on this front, my mandate seems pretty clear: Protect the motherboard at all times.