The Advantages of Being Dumped Over the Phone at 2 am
Writing this on Christmas Eve feels peculiar, almost unsettling. Not unsettling in a frightening sense, but more of a peculiar worry, as if the news put out a warning concerning a toddler out for revenge- there’s nothing to worry about but I won’t sleep quite as soundly understanding the implications of such a thing.
A Pabst Blue Ribbon and Criminal Minds tonight, followed by a morning of gift giving and Kenny G. Christmas music while my father takes enough pictures to consume the hard drive of a NASA computer which lies ahead. And in my life’s rear view mirror, a perky nineteen year old blonde with big tits who would only be the little spoon- and to be honest, I didn’t know that much more about her. I think that’s why I get the impression I shouldn’t feel so bad about the split we just went through, but she was my nineteen year old blonde with big boobs so I’m going to be salty and despondent about it.
I’ve had roughly a week of recovery time, but I filled most of it with deathmatch wrestling videos on Youtube and Southern Comfort. I don’t feel that’s proper etiquite for mourning a breakup, if that’s what you’d like to call it, but that’s not the only reason I feel I should have recovered. You see friends, I have a parylizing fear of commitment. I don’t even like ordering breakfast at restaurants. Usually, I order orange juice before I realize the orange juice costs two dollars and twenty-five cents compared to the one dollar and fifteen cent coffee. After that I usually black out into a panic attack, but I’ve been told I mostly shake uncontrollably and grumble about communism; but that’s neither here nor there, so I digress.
Commitment isn’t even the greatest of my fears, as it falls somewhere between both of my legs bending the wrong way and dropping my phone into liquid hot magma. What surprises me about these irrational fears is they aren’t accompanied by a fear of being left alone. Obviously, if this had been in the forefront of my quirky worries, I probably would have been more attentive to little hints she was dropping me about my shrug-offish attitude about sharing my feelings with her. The problem is, even if I had shared my feelings it would reflect a fear of commitment and she would have gotten upset anyway- but I don’t think this is how the female mind works- or at least how this females mind works. I should explain…
This is not the first time her and I have had a romantic encounter. It was sometime last year that her and I became acquainted; by acquainted, I mean she snuck me drunkenly through her building’s laundry room window and I woke up naked next to a trash can full of condoms. Even rougher back then, last years fling ended due to my own wishes, rather than hers. She mourned the breakup by promptly fucking one of my friends and continuing her ongoing guilt trip without telling me she’d slept with him. She justified this by bringing up the time I had sex with one of her dorm-mates while she was in the room- I made my own justification with the logical point that threesomes usually work that way. She didn’t seem to connect the dots. Flash to one year later, and here I sit.
I now realize that when we broke off our little escapade last year, it was through text message. This year, she told me over the phone at 2 am. I asked why she hadn’t broken it off earlier when I called her to no answer, and it was because she was with the new guy she was seeing. This time, her justification to me was answered by an abrupt , “Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m sorry,” she wimpered, and then there was quiet.
Trying to attatch any good outcomes to this situation is difficult. She told me that next time I should try to pay more attention to girls I date- all I’ve learned is to not date girs who hang out with Cracker Barrell employees. I can’t even be angry at the guy, she’s a good looking girl, but now I have a long explanation to my family about the girl who was supposed to come home with me. I suppose if I wanted to stretch for positive outcomes I could point out the fact that I got 3 months of consistent sex (the awesome “no condom because it’s the same person all the time fuck yeah” kind) and now someone else has to buy her Christmas gifts, but that more or less angers me for the guy. Nothing good really followed the situation, but I suppose good things happened within the situation. The true shock pertaining to the good outcomes is that they all tie back to her ending our situation over the phone.
You need to remember I had a lot of questions to ask after the grand reveal that another guy was in the picture.
I wanted to know why she was doing this to me, what this other guy had on me, what I ever did wrong. All of these questions could have been answered with an obvious “what do you think?” look had she known I was wearing footed pajamas and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon from a can. For these answers, I’m grateful I was on the telephone. I can be salty that I didn’t get any goodbye sex, and that hate-sex might be my favorite kind- but I play second-dick to no one. The point I’m slowly drudging toward here is that I’m moderately offended for the gross oversight of my feelings, the fact that she wouldn’t sit face to face with me and tell me that she was packing up her vagina and tits and dumping them out in “greener pastures.”
I think even if I was inattentive and oblivious as I was made to sound that I deserve some sense of dignity and respect by at least being spoken to face to face. On the other hand, such a thing taking place over the phone gave me the opportunity to promptly hang up and make a few phone calls, eliminating the pondering walk home I would have needed to take had she invited me over for a chat. In fact, if I had walked over there in the cold and it wasn’t followed by sex, I would have promptly thrown a temper tantrum.
The truth is, an act some consider indecent is actually a bit of merciful. There’s a definite silver lining in avoiding the awkward silence and goodbye hug (which I would have done with one arm, my hips out and my head turned away as far as my neck could contort.)
Speaking in metaphor, I now realize that being thrown out of the bar before I could finish my beer means that it just gets me to the after-party quicker; her being the half-empty beer I’ll never finish, and the after party being the single life I forgot I loved so much.
I’ll answer your critique, but only because you’re the first person on the website to write “pornographic delights”…
Well, to be honest with you I think you got the point but didn’t know it. Maybe I didn’t convey effectively enough the entire point of my story.
I was absolutely unprepared at the time to accept this girl’s flaws. I certainly didn’t want to accept the fact that perhaps I had some unbearable ones of my own, and was anything but prepared to be in a relationship with another adult. I was acting like an ignorant child, to be clear, and I tried to make that abundantly obvious throughout the column.
I will admit that I was fresh off the breakup when I wrote this article and probably let some of my frustrations make their way into the piece, which is why some of it may seem unnecessarily vulgar or mean-spirited, for that matter.
It was my responsibility, as a writer, to convey an accurate story of what happened, and I think I got the message across that I was acting like a douche-bag and probably deserved to be dumped. Of course nineteen with big tits doesn’t equal a romantic connection, which is why I made note that I knew nothing else about her.
However, the name of the article is actually a theme article that was being done here called Worst Day Ever, and I don’t think anyone would have believed it was, in fact, the worst day ever with an even temper and “Okey Dokey” attitude about the entire thing.
I should tell you, though, that “optimal” is usually used to describe something as being the best it can be; I’m not sure if you’re saying I’m not the best I can be (may be true) or that I’m not the best that any writer can be (obvious to anyone literate.) I don’t like to nitpick, either, but why would I be disappointed? I think you meant “delusional” rather than “disillusioned.”
I’m also confused that I wrote an article that you seemed to really take to heart, which I realized when you suggested I get an escort or a prostitute (are we really doing the thing and pretending they’re two different things?) and am not sure how I would afford a mail order bride since you pointed out that I will probably need more money to land a chesty nineteen year old (FACT). I’m assuming this means either I know you and you’re quite angry at me, I don’t know you and you’re still somehow angry with me, or I don’t know you and you were just very angry about something when you wrote your comment. Whichever it may be, if you didn’t like my story that’s fine; it’s also fine if you think I might be a tool from a few paragraphs of text or don’t think I’m capable of reaching the logical conclusion that I’m emotionally immature. I can’t argue with you. You did, though, leave out any indication of how my writing style is consistently sub-par or how it didn’t make sense. Which part of it was nonsensical to you?
It’s hard to understand a critique when the respondent spends a large portion of it calling me a dick and advising I pay for sex; it really doesn’t tell me about style flaws and inconsistency, so I’m not even sure how to take what you said to me under advisement.
Look, my best guess is that you really just don’t like me; that’s fine, you really don’t have to. I have enough friends and even came to terms with the girl in the story. If you really wanted to call me a dolt for the tone and style in which I wrote my article, though, I don’t think there was much of a point to hitting that “submit” button after the random lines of insults and a vindictive “Good Luck!”
But you did manage to use the term “pornographic delights,” so I guess I can’t be too mad.
Cheers!
Drew
Wow, not only are you a sub-optimal writer, you are very disillusioned. 19 and big tits does not equal romantic connection. Be happy you got to see her tits, and the next time you meet a girl that you want to bring home for reasons other than pornographic delight, make sure you tell her. If she doesn’t like you after that, you should just broaden your horizons to girls who can meet your unrealistic standards of perfection and like you at the same time. If that doesn’t work, there are always escorts, prostitutes, and mail order brides. Or, maybe you’ll get an awesome editor who can make sense out of your writing, and you’ll strike it rich and get that hot 19 year old with the big tits when you are slightly more mature and have much more monetary compensation to offer. Good Luck!