Canape CanaPleaseTellMeThatDidn’tHappen

Dear friends, yet again I am serving up a dish that I can’t really tell you much about. So I am just going to use these canapes as an excuse to further illustrate the clusterfuck that is my love life. I probably shouldn’t even be sharing this story because it is so embarrassing; but it is so ridiculous that it actually transcends embarrassment. I have laughed multiple times while writing this. Because it was so batshit crazy–because I was so batshit crazy.

So I told you in my last post about Zeke, the Walt Whitman guy. Well, Zeke asked me out again and I texted back that I had a lovely time with him and thanked him for the book, but there was someone else I met that I wanted to give it a go with (this was something that was completely misconstrued, but that is neither here nor there).

That someone else was Best First Date Ever Guy. And it really was that–The Best First Date Ever. It started at 5pm and lasted until noon. Just deliciously and delightfully FUN. Effortless. With lots of stuff I really love, namely Korean food, Hite, and soju. The date kinda blew my mind because I couldn’t believe that stupid OKCupid was able to do whatever kind of computer shit it does and gives you a 95% match that seems like a 95% match. Example: aside from being a major carnivore, this dude genuinely liked karaoke–so much so that we got one of the rooms at the Rainbow Music Studio and sang like crazy. And harmonized. Gentle readers, this was really a rare bird.

And so after that we were quietly dating (or whatever you call it–hanging out? Hooking up?); so quietly that I never told anyone about it. It was a little bit rad.

But then I got kicked to the curb. And I totally deserved it.

These days with all the texting and chatting and emailing and Facebooking and blogging, there’s a whole new arsenal of ways to misread things and basically have no goddamned clue what anyone is saying. Because it’s all just typed words. There is no tone. There is no inflection. There is no sarcasm font (which there should be. Someone please invent it. This entire blog would be published in said font).

I kinda wish that it was like when I was back in high school–you wanted to communicate with someone? You either did it in person, over the phone, or via a heartfelt note folded with a dozen different creases and passed two rows over and one desk down. There was no way of completely avoiding someone because you had to see them in class the next day. These days it is so goddamned simple to just vanish–fall into an internet black hole. Or at least block someone.

So when Best First Date Ever Guy seemingly stopped texting and emailing and chatting me I was a little bit befuddled–but everything was going so well!

Our last full-on gchat exchange I went something like this:

What are my chances of seeing you this weekend?

And his response included some details about being super-busy at work and some friend maybe or maybe not coming in from out of town.

I’m working on it!

Signing off!

And then, boom. Gone. He became the little offline grey dot. And then nothing for 2 more days.

In that time I had sent one message–something alluding to a party he had gone to that weekend. But no response. Or so I thought.

So, I totally had to read into that. There was never a more in-depth critical analysis on any important literary work than what I focused on a tiny chat. No one has ever debated the use of an exclamation point more than I did in that 24 hour period. Is that an I’m working on it! (exclamation point: I am truly excited about trying to figure this out because I would like to see you again?) or is it and I’m working on it! (exclamation point: please stop bothering me, and buy a clue, you daft cow?).

He continued to be the sad grey dot on the left side of gmail. But it was fine. I played it very cool–this guy wasn’t my boyfriend he had no obligation to me (nor me to him)—so I went on an electronic communication embargo and didn’t let anything leave these shores.

At least I did.

Until I didn’t.

This was my rational, in my 30s, point of view. If he’s not calling, he’s just not that into you. If he’s not texting, he’s just not that into you. 

Well, in a very misguided attempt at beating him to the punch, I wrote the whole, I haven’t heard from you in a long time so I am assuming that you just aren’t that into me, which is a shame because I really, really like you and I thought that things were pretty rad, but that’s cool because I’m cool and, I won’t bother you anymore email. It was more of a journal-type thing and the email was supposed to remain unsent (I was on communication embargo, remember?).

And then another day of no contact. Just the grey dot.

If he’s not contacting you. He’s just not that into you. 

So, I am gchatting with one of my high school friends. She figured out that there was someone in the picture and so I tell her that me and Best First Date Ever Guy hadn’t been in touch for a bit but that was fine because he said he was busy. And that it was no big deal.

Yes, but if he’s into you, he’s never too busy to contact you. 

And so I send my friend my hypothetical email. Soon we are rewriting this email like it’s a new constitutional law (and, like a new constitutional law it was a hot mess) and trying to figure out what it is that I may have said or done to cause this lapse in communication.

Oh! Gchat green button. He’s online! What if I just text and say “hey”?

NO. DO. NOT. CHAT. WITH. GREEN. BUTTON.

You have to wait for him to contact you.

Didn’t want to seem too eager. Too needy.

I am breezy.

I am chill.

Until I was totally not.

Then it dawned on me that I hadn’t reached out to him either. Oh shit–maybe now he thinks that I’m not into him because I’m not contacting him?

And then in my reader a new blog post of his came up (yep, he has a blog)–a metaphorical rant about bulletin boards and newspaper clippings?–I have no fucking clue because I was so riled up by spending so much goddamned time thinking about it and talking to my friend so of course we jumped to the conclusion that it had something to do with me (because everything has to do with me). And I got sucked into some irrational, panicked, completely narcissistic hate spiral.

It was like fucking Defcon Five.

Me: Do I send the email? Oh my God, he totally does think that I don’t like him because of this completely vague blog post! I gotta send the email!

My friend: No, go balls to the walls! You need to call this motherfucker! You gotta actually talk to him!

And I did.

I fucking did.

Both of them. I sent the email and then picked up the goddamned phone and left a voice mail. 

A VOICE MAIL!

After the voice mail I return to my desk. After a whole day of sad gray: green dot. Green dot! GREEN DOT! And there it is in my inbox: The Email.

Well, I don’t need to tell you too much about The Email except that it was very long and kinda harsh. But honestly, I can’t even tell you much about The Email because I read it once and then deleted it.

The email explained that he had been home sick for the past 2 days and wasn’t on the computer at all (hence grey dot). And that he did send a chat back to me immediately over the weekend when I had tried to contact him, but I apparently had never received it. Well, and that he was completely caught off guard by my email (and that fucking voicemail) and now most definitely did not want to see me this weekend and no longer felt comfortable with the situation. Or me. Or us.

Sweet Christ on a cracker–I was completely and utterly embarrassed. My hyperbolic email wasn’t meant as some Hail Mary play of desperation nor some grand romantic gesture. And it was definitely not intended to paint me as some out-of-control manic-depressive.

And then the phone call! Holy fuck. Who does that? Well, I guess I do. Because I have lost. my. mind.

So let’s review: I don’t hear from him for 2 days, so the only logical conclusion is that he never wants to speak to me again over something that I may or may not have done. So it was completely reasonable for me to send a “well, thanks for playing!” email. And then follow it up with a completely incoherent and paranoid I-am-a-teenage-girl-and-losing-my-shit voicemail.

See, kittens, THIS is why I didn’t tell anyone about seeing this guy–so I didn’t have people to talk to about it. I apparently do pretty damn well when left to my devices. But then you talk to people and your crazy takes what would be good advice and then twists it into insane advice and you become fucking unhinged. UN. HINGED.

As the days have gone past, I really don’t have any strong feelings about what happened. Well, yes, regret and embarrassment–but you’d think that I’d have all those pit in my stomach “OMG, what did I just do?–what can I do to make it better?–I better talk to him and explain–is he ever going to call me again?” moments. But I don’t.

There is no point since I know that he will never contact me again. I mean, it would be a fucking miracle if he would just chalk it up to just what it was (a wee bit of mania with a healthy side of psychosis) and shoot me a text; but I know that I wouldn’t speak to me again. I mean, would you?

Oh, and an extra-special shout-out to Google! None of this would have been possible without you. That missed gchat thing worked out really well for me. You’re the best. Totally. For realisies.

 And you know the thing that makes this all the worse? These canapes sucked absolute ass. With the exception of the fact that I made my own Melba Toast, this was a whole world of fail.

How apropos.

*note: earlier version of this post made it sound as though one of my dear friends deliberately pushed me into the realm of the lunatics. Her advice was well intentioned.