Breaking up is hard to do. Slightly less so with two-timing drug dabblers.
Rachel dumped me.
Wait. Did I never tell you guys that I was dating a girl named Rachel?
OK, let me start over.
I was dating a girl named Rachel. Then she dumped me. Ta-da.
Remember that time I got up on my high horse and said that I was too special and awesome for casual dating? I hope for your sake you remember, because it was only a few weeks ago. I’m no doctor – although I’m practically a nurse practitioner as evidenced by my recent self-diagnosis of cervical cancer after finding a lump in my neck – but short-term memory loss is a sign of lead poisoning in children, so if you’re a kid reading this blog and already have forgotten my post from last month, STOP EATING PAINT. I probably just saved a life. Also, youths should not be reading this blog because lately I can’t seem to stop talking about my cervix and I swear like a motherfucker. Oops. Sorry, kids.
So, back to my casual-dating high horse.Well, technically, I don’t have a horse. I have two cats. I guess I could stack Teva and Isabel on top of each other, but they’d still be only about two feet off the ground, and that’s not very far to fall at all. But sometimes people can drown in only a few inches of water, and Keith Moon choked on a puddle of his own vomit, so I guess maybe toppling from Teva and Isabel could potentially be hazardous. At the very least, I could sprain something. This would all be moot if my parents had bought me a pony.
Rachel was the last date during my Month of Casual Dating. We hit it off right away. First impressions: incredibly cute, mischievous, brainy. During our second date, she kissed me unexpectedly on a busy street corner in Harvard Square, and I was smitten. For Date 3 – in which I’m happy to report I didn’t propose marriage because I learned the hard way earlier this year that girls apparently don’t appreciate that – she invited me over to her apartment for wine on her porch. All was lovely until a lull between sips and snogs, when I innocently inquired: “Are you seeing anyone else?” “Yes,” she replied.
“It isn’t serious with Alyssa,” Rachel assured me. I hate Alyssa. What a dumb name.
“It’s fun,” Rachel insisted. I want to kill Alyssa. And seriously, the last four letters of her name spelled backward is “assy.”
“Just casual,” Rachel shrugged. Bitch has to die. The letters of her name also spell “salsa.” Damn it. I like salsa. Let’s stay focused on “assy.”
She emailed me a few days later, asking whether I’d like to continuing dating her despite the confession.
And then I fell off my high horse. Which I’ve already established is actually not that high at all, and not even a horse but house cats piled in a two-tiered pyramid formation.
The truth is, I didn’t care Rachel has a girlfriend. In my perpetual state of singledom that leaves me starved for human contact, I was feeling desperate enough to suspend my morals and better judgment and share her with someone else.
The next day, during the course of our vegetarian Indian dinner for two, Rachel mentioned having gotten so smashed that she’d bailed on her weekend plans. Then she started spouting off about a drug-dealer friend who frequents parties at her house. Later, she said she spent the two days leading up to her birthday in June high on methamphetamines.
And yet, I still wanted to go home with her.
As we left the eatery, she awkwardly began, “So, I think you’re really smart, and funny, but …” and I knew immediately that I was about to get the Sapphic sayonara. “… you’re not my type.”
There it was. I’d just been dismissed by a recreational Speed user and possible chronic alcohol abuser with shady associates who’s casually seeing someone else. Apparently, my high horse just wasn’t high enough.
Ironically, the girl who’d just demonstrated a slew of stupid choices was able to make the one smart decision I was seemingly incapable of.
Of course I know that she did me a favor. I’d just been hoping that she’d do me other favors first.
And by “other” I mean “sexual.”
And did anyone else notice that I just said “do me”?
Also, Rachel wasn’t upfront about assy Alyssa, and I never disclosed the neck lump I’ve named Mango that, if not a malignancy in my lady bits, is probably indicative of mono, the clap (Sarah P.‘s astute suggestion) or another highly contagious social disease spread by swapping spit.
Let’s call it even.