Safe Asleep

I keep telling him that I will pick him up, that I'm only five miles away, so he won't drive drunk. He insists that he's okay. Morpheus says that he wants some pizza, that he's starving--or maybe a burrito.

As I'm driving into town towards his house, I stop at two Mexican restaurants, and two Italian restaurants, and all are closed because of the late hour. The only business that is open is Burger King. I order him two tacos, and wait around in the fast food place. The people ordering before and after me look like they're either homeless or day laborers. One kid looks like he's drunk, hounding for a snack.

As I take the sack, and head towards my Mazda, I get a flashback of my previous life as a private dancer--the all night hours, the strange people I encountered, the risks that I inevitably take.

I'm driving to his house, and I'm listening to No Doubt, particularly "Don't Speak." The Tragic Kingdom album is arguably one of the very best that came from the '90's. The whole idea of meeting up with him begins to sound less and less appealing. I don't want to have this same argument I've been having with him, but I find it to be inevitable. Of course, we're going to fight about this. I tell myself that I'll just be there long enough to check to make sure he's safely home, and to deliver the tacos.

By the time I arrive, he's asleep on the couch, clutching his cellphone in one hand. I walk up to him, notice he's oddly dressed, and then touch his ankle. He opens his eyes, and no surprise appears on his face, like I'm there every morning when he wakes up, and there every night while he slumbers.

Wandering Lost and Alone

It's 9:42pm, and I'm sitting on my bed watching TV. I had a couple glasses of wine, had a couple guys from Bumble who wanted to see me, but I didn't want to see them. It seems so exhausting getting up, getting dressed up, putting on makeup, and on and on.

The phone is ringing, which means that it's either Morpheus, who I left a message with earlier, or something is wrong with my paternal grandmother (my maternal grandmother would never call even if she was dying).

Dad answers the phone. "Oh, okay..." He shows me the digital read out of the phone, and asks me if I know that number.

"Yes." I speak to the person over the phone. "Hello."

"Who is this?"

"I'm sorry," I'm a little stunned.

"Someone called me from this number...." he pauses. "Is this you?"

I don't know which "you" he's referring to. "It's me. It's [Jae]."

The phone hangs up. A few minutes later, he calls me again, and then proceeds to hang up--again.

Apparently, Morpheus is out wandering around my old stomping grounds, looking for his Mercedes, drunk. He keeps asking me if I'm okay.

"Well, in what way?" I respond. I tell him about the good things going on in my life, I'm doing well in school, I have great friends, etc. "But if you think I'm okay with what happened between us, then no, I'm not okay."

"Nothing happened between us," he says.

"Well, that's hurtful."

"No, that's not what I meant."

Surprise, Surprise (Do I Stay Angry?)

In an email, the LSU Professor wrote, "As your anger mellows with time, come back and read what you have here.  Remember your anger and choose if u wish to repeat it." He was talking about my anger towards Morpheus.

Do you really want to repeat it? Over and over again?

This afternoon, perhaps I was a little bored, I had just finished vacuuming the house, and doing some laundry, and cleaning the kitchen. I decided to go through the house phone's caller ID to see if I "missed anything important," i.e. a call from Morpheus. Of course, I never expected to find such a call because that would be crazy.

But apparently, he called me on May 21 at 8:20am. I didn't know until today. It happened to have been a Sunday, and although I don't remember that specific Sunday, I'm pretty sure I was in bed or just getting out of bed at that time.

More on Bumble

Then, there's the guy with the six-pack abs, and the really big dick (he showed it to me in a picture, hoping, I guess, that it will increase his odds to sleep with me--which it did).

What to do with him?

Also On Bumble

Also on Bumble:

Real estate agent talks and talks to me for a couple of days, and we had agreed to meet up Thursday evening (he picked the restaurant, which shows his taste).

About an hour before we were to get together, he sends me a message via Bumble (he doesn't even know my last name or have my phone number) that he can't make it because a client asked me to show some property in another town. He asked if we could meet up the next day.

I had already dressed, put on makeup and driven to the town he wanted to meet in (about forty-five minutes from my house). So, I send him this message back: "The answer is no. Go fuck yourself."

And this is the man who assured me that he was not a flake.

This Conversation is Officially Over, Part II

"Im not trying to be mean."

--the latest TXT-message from the lecturer from the University who I found on Bumble

This Conversation is Officially Over

"Question: have you ever physically hurt anyone you cared about?"

--TXT-message from a professor at the University who I found on Bumble

Usually, I wouldn't disclose my illness on the first date, but the guy did mention that his bipolar ex-girlfriend did try to kill him. "It wasn't her fault," he tells me. "It was her illness."

"Did I do or say something wrong?" He TXT-messages me after we got done meeting at the bar.

"No, you were great. But I'm wondering how you will take this bit of news."

"What?"

"I have schizoaffective disorder - bipolar type. If you don't know what that is, I can explain it to you."

"I know what it is...I figured before I met you."

What? Did my picture on my profile have the face of a bipolar woman? "Figured what?"

"Bipolar. Remember I grew up with a psychiatrist and almost have a PhD in neurology."

"Well, schizoaffective disorder is a little more complicated than just bipolar disorder...It includes elements of schizophrenia." You talk like a smart asshole, and I can talk down to you too. Ha.

"Ok...So what do you want..."

"I don't want anything. Just thought you should know because you have to determine if that's the kind of person you want in your life." Part of this doesn't settle well with me, but I say it anyway. It's like apologizing for something that isn't your fault just to ease someone else's conscience. People with mental illness deserve to be seen for the unique creatures they are. They have their strengths and their insights, and, let's face it, someone with bipolar disorder can be a lot of fun.

Then, he starts asking me if I take medication (yes!), and what do I take, you know personal questions that someone who you've just met once in your life should never ask because it's none of his fucking business. But anyway. I appease him.

Then, finally, the bomb: "Question: have you ever physically hurt anyone you cared about?"

For us educated folk, we know that people with mental illness are much more likely to be victims of violent crime than the perpetrators. But nevermind, because he almost has his Ph.D.

Then, he keeps sending me TXT-messages because I haven't come up with a good response (at least I haven't found a polite one).

"Will you answer??"

"Hello?????"

Finally, I decide: "This conversation is over. Thanks for the drinks."

So much for fucking an University professor (one of my fantasies).

His response: "Wow. So much for open communication."