Friday, July 25, 2008

Hey Hey What's That Sound?

Fratty was a frat boy. A stalker frat boy.

Let me explain.

Fratty and I had dated casually for a few weeks. At some point, I realized he wasn't really all that bright, and I had better things to do than continue messing around with him. Let me be clear, we had never slept together - at all. We hadn't been dating that long. Nevertheless, Fratty apparently didn't get the memo that he was never going to sleep with me.

We still hung out in the same circles, and occasionally ran into one another. We both happened to go to the same party one night, at the home of a mutual friend of ours who I had gone to high school with. Realizing I had drank a wee bit too much, I asked my friend if I could stay at his house. He was happy to oblige, and even offered me the guest room. Little did I know that Fratty had overheard the exchange.

Later in the evening, Fratty, "too drunk to go home," asked my friend if he, too, could stay the night. My friend, the ever accommodating guy that he was, agreed, telling him he could stay on the fouton in his room.

After I had fallen asleep, I was awakened by the door opening and shutting in the guest room I was sleeping in. It was Fratty.

"Umm, what are you doing?"

"I'm tired. His fouton is uncomfortable" And he laid down next to me.

"Uh, no. You can't stay in here. Please leave."

After repeated attempts to cuddle (you would think a couple of pointed arm removals, hand slaps, and the escalating face slaps would be some sort of deterent), I finally stood up and walked out of the room. Fratty finally left the guest bedroom a few minutes after it clicked I wasn't going to come back in for some more cuddling.

Not even a half an hour into finally falling asleep, I was awakened by snoring. There was no one in the bed, so I glanced on the floor. Curiously, there was nothing either, but snoring was still distinctly audible.

On a hunch, I looked under the bed. Fratty had squeezed, apparently quite quietly, under the bed while I slept. I shook him to wake his stalker ass up, but he was either in a deep sleep or convinced that if he faked it long enough I would leave him be.

I wasn't going to put up with it, so I went to my friend's room and took shelter on his fouton - which was surprisingly quite comfortable, contrary to Fratty's claims.

In the morning, my friend accussed Fratty of playing musical beds, and not-so-kindly told him off on my behalf. Now that's what good friends are for. Scaring off creepy loserexes.

Freakin STALKER.

I'm a Loser Baby (Part 2)

Stringbean and I had been on our last leg when the flying squirrel incident happened, but I finally found the strength and/or balls to dump him for good a few months later. (Remember - we were long distance, so it took longer than it EVER would have had I been continually submitted in person to the loserness that was Stringbean.)

Once again, Stringbean neglected to call me the night before. At this point, however, I had grown accustomed to his flakiness and didn't think much of it. I was in class, trying to focus on what my professor was telling me about the phonetic alphabet and the french language, when my phone buzzed. The number came up as "Unknown," and I let it roll to voicemail. I imagined it was Stringbean, and thought it was appropriate to make the jerk wait. He knew I was in class, and, quite frankly, I didn't care what he had to say at the moment.

When class ended, I checked my voicemail.

"Hey baby girl it's me... (automated voice jumps in) is trying to call you from Jefferson County Detention Center. This call is collect and cannot be returned."

Needless to say I was not amused. My boyfriend was in friggin JAIL.

I called his Dad to find out what happened. He was a little sketchy on the details, but Stringbean had been arrested the night before for assault, and his Dad made the executive decision to leave his ass in the slammer for a day or two. I fully supported his decision.

Meanwhile, I called his buddy Bovi to find out the "real" story. Stringbean and some chick had been arguing inside the house. Bovi had young kids who were sleeping and decided that the two of them could take their dispute outside and leave the kids in their peaceful slumber.

Yet, once outside, it seems the argument esclated. Suffice it to say that the neighbors called the cops when they saw a young man and a young woman turning to blows to solve their argument. When the police arrived, they found Stringbean on top of said young woman, appearing, apparently, to be strangling her.

When Stringbean finally called at a time I could answer, I had very little to say. No amount of crying, "you're supposed to support me," "I called you because I thought you'd be the only person who would be on my side," or any other various blubbering statements could sway me.

Stringbean and I were finally over. It saddens me to this day that it took a jailhouse phone call for me to walk away from this loserex.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

The Story of Us

I started my first blog my junior year of college. Putting your innermost thoughts on the internet and putting the link in your AIM profile is probably not the smartest thing to do, but all of my smart/witty/deep friends were doing it and we all do really dumb things in college. At least I didn't get herpes or something.

The next summer I dated MB. MB wasn't as smart/witty/deep as me and my friends, but he wanted to pretend so he started his own blog. Unfortunately, having already graduated from college (and I am using the term "college" very loosely) and being marginally employed, the content for his blog was pretty mundane. He attempted to make up for it by posting song lyrics (usually Italian opera lyrics that no one understood) and some of his original poetry (he was self-published). Shortly after we broke up, he took a stab at writing fiction. Really grotesque fiction (think scripts for snuff films). About me. Using my real name.

I am not going to go into details, but let's just say with a good bit of alcohol in my system, I could probably be persuaded into a few kind-of-kinky things. Necrophilia is not one of those things. Especially if I am the dead one.

Ordinarily, this would be terrifying and I would look into restraining orders, but, as I may have mentioned before, MB was questionably literate. So much so that you had to read each sentence three or four times before you understood what he was trying to convey. So instead of taking out a restraining order, I printed out a dozen copies of one of his creepier stories and left them on the editing table of the newspaper office on a Sunday afternoon.

My fellow editors are to this day some of my best friends because just like me, they are a) anal about editing things and b) willing to do just about anything to avoid doing actual work.

My friends didn't let me down and immediately began editing MB's prose and researching the submission requirements for the literary magazine (as in we called the editor of the literary magazine, told her we were writing a story about it and asked a bunch of "interview" questions--then, so no one would suspect anything, we stuck a random "call for submission" text box on the A&E page). We put MB's real name on his story and stuck it in the magazine's on-campus mailbox in the middle of the night.

I wish I could say it got published, but it didn't. Surprisingly, the literary magazine actually gets enough submissions that they are able to reject some. I never heard about it again, unless you count every editorial meeting for the rest of the semester.

I guess it's all for the best, as it probably would have resulted in both of us getting in real trouble if it had been published. And while I am all for making my exes pay for their transgressions, I don't think any of them have done anything bad enough to deserve jail time.

Thursday, July 03, 2008

Alcohol, Part 3

After the riverboat episode, Fred was in quite a bit of trouble (well, as much trouble as one ever really gets in during college). Since he had already completed the mandatory on-campus alcohol class and counseling following his experiment in pantslessness, they had to give him something a bit more substantial -- the requirement to attend an off-campus alcohol evaluation. This meant that Fred would have to pony up a few bucks to pay for a psychological evaluation. And paying for anything was not Fred's style. Seriously, he wiped his ass with newspapers he found around campus to save money on toilet paper.

Not wanting to give up his life long streak of being unreasonably cheap, he considered his alternatives. His conclusion: find a professor licensed to practice psychology and get him to sign off on the forms. Of course, Fred didn't actually know any professors who fit the bill, so he "asked" that I have my advisor sign off on his papers.

I was appalled that he saw no problem with making me ask my advisor to do something illegal, and unethical for my alcoholic boyfriend (seriously no judgment -- he had a problem). He didn't even want to go talk to the guy, he just wanted to give me the papers and have them get signed.

Obviously, this was a no go. There was no way I was going to ask a professor to put his job on the line because my boyfriend is a cheapskate alcoholic. Fred eventually came up with the money to get the evaluation -- and held it against me for the rest of the time we dated.