June 5th, 2011 7:50pm - Communicate Instead of Pulling a Crazy Bitch Move... or Not

I loved my college boyfriend, who we'll call Aidan.
Some things you should know: 

• On our first date we went to an Asian place that served singular dishes large enough to eat dinner and have leftovers for six other meals. I finished my entire meal and the rest of his. He had the good sense to tell me that he was impressed, but the look on his face told me he was disturbed.

• We did really cool things together, like going to a public execution and accidentally burning holes in the living room carpet by knocking over the hookah.

• He did awesome things with his wardrobe and appearance, like shaving his head into a mohawk, or wearing a gas station attendant uniform he picked up at Goodwill, and penny loafers with actual pennies in them.

• He was handy at things, like helping me duct tape cardboard over my car window when it got smashed in, and getting my bike stolen out of his friend's garage.

Every year at USF, the seniors threw a pub crawl. Our senior year, Aidan and I were talking to a girl that we both knew. She said she hadn't known that we knew each other, and he replied that we had dated on and off since sophomore year. This was entirely true. At the time, we weren't even officially together. However, I was stumbling drunk and wanted him to say that we had been together since sophomore year. That would have been a lie, but that's what I had wanted to hear. Because that makes sense. When she walked away, I asked him why he said that.

"What?" he asked.

"Why'd you say that we dated on and off?"

"Because it's true?"

I grunted like an overweight big rig driver and pushed my way back to the bar. And then I did the sensible thing and ordered a triple shot of whiskey. I loathe whiskey. Smelling it makes me gag. I would rather inhale the aroma of my dog's fart. She ate possums on a regular basis. The bartender put the shot on the bar and I snatched at it as if there were sanity in the glass. I downed half the shot and immediately threw up all over the bar. The bartender looked at the vomit leaking over the countertop and pooling around his workstation. He glared at me. I recognized regurgitated sushi. I shrugged, wiped the puke off my mouth, and staggered out into the wet air of San Francisco. 

Aidan followed me. He rationally, calmly, asked why I was upset. Instead of explaining my unreasonable thought process like a normal person, I told him that I didn't want to be with him anymore. He stopped walking and said that it really hurt him to hear that. I repeat: we weren't technically together. However, I was insanely in love with him and wanted to be with him. Thus, I proceeded to inform him for the remaining eighteen blocks home that I didn't want to be with him. Shockingly, when we got to the front of my apartment, he took his hat off and threw it on the ground. He took his sweatshirt off and threw that on the ground. I fantasized that he was going to strip naked and yell, What do you want from me? as the rain started to fall. But he didn't, and there was no rain. He said that he didn't think he was going to come up. I maturely replied that I didn't want him to come up, and he walked off. 

Of course I wanted him to come up. I wanted him to come up and ravage me. Which, weirdly enough, he did the following night. We videotaped for the first time. Communication might just possibly be the important thing here. But more importantly: women are crazy. And men are nuts.