I’m in love right now and it’s completely confusing. I always thought love was supposed to feel
like a knife was getting jammed into your heart and that you were crying
blood. Is that not right? Love with Boyfriend is carefree and
easy. It makes me wonder if all those
other loves I had before him were somehow wrong.
When I was in college, I fell in love with a writer. He was magical and mysterious. Also, he wasn’t technically a writer – he was
a college student. But I knew he had
great potential and I was completely enamored.
We spent many nights trying to make sense of the world over a bottle or
two of wine. The most baffling thing
about The Writer was that he refused to sleep with me. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, and before
I knew it we were entangled in a deep emotional affair.
Due to his enigmatic demeanor, I was one of the few people
who deeply understood The Writer. His
handwriting was atrocious but I could
read it, because of our deep spiritual bind, so I often typed up his papers for
him. He asked me to do it because he
trusted me so much. Also, I prepared
most of his meals for him since no one else knew how he liked things. We would go for walks through the city,
stumble into some quaint pub, get wasted and then go back to the dorms where I would
try to sleep with him, to no avail. IT
WAS MADDENING!
After college, I lived with him and two other men. I figured that if we were sleeping in the
same apartment every night, it would only be a matter of time before we were
actually sleeping with each other. Well
this mother fucker would not budge and I couldn’t wait around forever so I
started to switch tactics. Instead of
throwing all of my attention his way, I decided to show him I was desired by
other men. Thus began a parade of
one-night-stands through our shared apartment.
As always, I had done it wrong. I
mean…he already knew I was slutty.
Ultimately, I had proved nothing.
I switched tactics again and started seriously dating
another man who I then moved in with!
Hooray! Success! I had shown The Writer that I was a
responsible woman who wanted to settle down!
The problem, I later realized, is that I had inadvertently settled down
with the wrong man while simultaneously moving myself out of the apartment
where the man I actually wanted to sleep with resided. DAMNIT!
At this point, I just decided to get sober. I wasn’t thinking clearly and needed to get
off the booze. In the process of
sobering up, I realized two things: 1) I did not enjoy the man I had decided to
move in with and 2) The Writer had moved to Wisconsin !
So far, sobriety had turned out to be an epic fail.
I was defeated. I knew The Writer was into me! I knew that, if given a chance, I could show
him that I was the one he wanted! I
could be responsible, and I could help to foster his extraordinary writing
ability, and I could do all his typing. AND WE COULD FINALLY HAVE SEX! But alas, the ship had sailed. I moved on with my life and suspected he had
moved on with his. You can imagine my
surprise when he called me a few years later and invited me to Wisconsin TO
CELEBRATE MY BIRTHDAY!
This was it! I could
feel it. He had bided his time like the
brooding savage he was. I should have
guessed! Of course he cared about me so
much that he had waited in the wings while I got my life in order so he could
swoop in and claim me as his own as soon as the most opportunistic moment
arose. IT WAS ALL HAPPENING!
I drove to see The Writer and I was glowing. I met him at the restaurant where he was working while he waited for his writing career to take off. Once I arrived, he immediately introduced me to all his co-worker, waitperson friends. He was showing me off and I was
in all my glory. IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! And he didn’t want me spending it with anyone
other than him. I regaled his co-workers
with college anecdotes of The Writer and me. I looked at the other women there and thought
how sad for them that I had won. Here
was this dashing artist before them and he had chosen me. There was one small Mexican waitress in the
corner who looked particularly bereft and I thought to myself that I hoped she
would find love someday…like I had.
After a while, The Writer and I left to go to our romantic
dinner. I knew we were in for a long
chat and that he was going to finally tell me what he had been thinking all of
those years. He’d share that he was deeply
in love with me but never thought the moment was right and that he had wanted
for us to be on different footing before we started our lives together. Before he opened his lips to speak, I was
already taken. I was going to sleep with
The Writer. He was going to tell me he
loved me. And then I was going to have
ferocious sex with him. I couldn’t wait.
He began to speak and I was beaming.
The Writer: Ali?
Me: Yes?
The Writer: I have to tell you something.
(OMG, here it comes.)
Me: Yes?
The Writer: Ya know that woman you met back at the bar?
(The weirdo Mexican woman?
Yea, what’s your point?)
Me: I think so.
The Writer: Well she’s my girlfriend. And she’s pregnant. I’m going to be a father.
Rage is a lot like taking a drink. It dominates everything around me and I can’t
be expected to remember anything that happens once it overcomes me. Here’s what was happening in my head:
YOU STUPID FUCKING LOSER PIECE OF SHIT! IS THIS A JOKE?! YOU DRAG ME ALL THE WAY OUT TO FUCKING
WISCONSIN TO TELL ME YOU IMPREGNATED SOME FUCKING WAITRESS AND THINK THAT I’M
GOING TO BE HAPPY FOR YOU?! ARE YOU
FUCKING KIDDING ME YOU EPIC DOUCHEBAG?!
HOW CAN YOU EVEN BE SURE THIS SUPPOSED BABY IS YOURS?! SEEING AS YOU’VE REPEATEDLY REFUSED TO SLEEP
WITH ME, I’D BE SHOCKED TO LEARN THAT YOUR PENIS HAS ANY FUNCTIONALITY
WHATSOEVER. FOR ALL YOU KNOW, SHE FUCKED
A BUS BOY AND THEN YOU RUBBED AGAINST HER ONE NIGHT AND NOW SHE’S CLAIMING THAT
YOU IMPREGNATED HER. IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY PEOPLE WANTED
TO HANG OUT WITH ME TODAY? LITERALLY
ZILLIONS. YOU ARE A DISGUSTING MONSTER. YOU’RE NOT EVEN A WRITER! THE ONLY THING YOU’LL BE WRITING ARE CHECKS
FOR THAT WOMAN TO FLY HER ENTIRE FAMILY HERE FROM MEXICO YOU STUPID LIMP DICK FUCK!
That’s what was going on in my head. In all actuality, I burst into tears, paid
for dinner, smoked a carton of cigarettes and made up a story about how I was
immediately needed in Chicago .
I have no idea whatever happened to his horrible girlfriend
and baby. For all I know, he wrote a
sweeping novel about how they both died during childbirth. That would be just my luck. Then I’d have to live with the knowledge that
I could have been the dead wife who had created a masterpiece.
