IV. Pad Thai Troubles
Unemployment is pretty sweet because you can just roll around in your dollar store sheets till 4 pm and play Facebook fly on the wall. Nose around the ex who you unfollowed for this express reason, feel bad about the underaged model he's now fucking and then go to that middle school frenemy's page to stalk pictures of her 3 dumb, drooling babies and wall-eyed boyfriend. You know, superiority complex-inducing shit.
Today started out like any other feel-sorry-for-myself mid-afternoon slump, which I guess is how I ended up in a 2-hour long pity party Skype session with a dude I slept with once. Once. Someone who shouldn't even know what my go-to coffee order is, let alone that I'm currently crying alone on the floor of my apartment.
But then again, who gives a fuck. Especially since dude turns out to be several continents and 8000+ miles from Broadway Junction. Yeah, the lifelong New Yorker who pulled a Holden Caulfield and decided to move back to Thailand with just a deflated air mattress and a Xanax script.
Not that I didn't see that one coming when we briefly dated. After all, he did admit (to a date of Asian descent, nonetheless) that Bangkok was great mostly because he was just "another skinny Jew looking for entry into someone's sideways Shangri-La" (his words, not mine). A true Woody Allen, that one. Plus, the dude just wasn't equipped to come back to a city where failure was the only thing he felt comfortable with. Turns out he used to be some Strokes-level musical prodigy signed (and subsequently dropped) by Island at 15. Because that's what you do as a power-tripping, UES-bred brat who still hasn't adjusted to a sudden influx of testosterone. You throw temper tantrums that eventually get you thrown into a psych ward by your terrified friends/former bandmates.
This time though it was his parents who called a cop squad on him after one manic outburst too many. He says his dad was ugly-crying and his mom was too benzo'd out to notice. The solution? Well slip out of the Russian's death grip and run away like some shitty Home Alone storyline, right?
So at this point, I'm 95% convinced that you have to be some sort of sociopath for me to be attracted to you. Whether it's being emotional stunted, a petty criminal or just plain crazy, I'll probably want to suck your dick. So get at me, all you Bushwick-based Patrick Bateman wannabes.
Anyway, I got a message from the dude, because he was jet-lagged and all alone and I was apparently the only person online who wasn't ready to incarcerate him. And that's how we started talking again after a month of radio silence...which I had originally chalked up to the dude not wanting to return that veal marsala I left in his fridge. Totally understandable, in my honest opinion.
But somehow we end up Skyping. Two hours of mutual bitching, bonding and moaning. He tells me about the psychological impact of his impotency, I monotone about being stuck in metaphorical amber. Dead-ended.
At some point, I even start sobbing. So frustrated by the fact that I feel alienated and unemployed and just like a huge fucking waste of space. I'm so disconnected that I don't even care about tearing in front of a guy I've met twice. After all, sometimes it's best to spill your guts to someone you could care less about and probably won't see again. The broke Brooklynite's version of therapy, right?
But soon the tears dry up and the conversation starts to lull and it's time for this emotional wreck to just kill off another totally unproductive day with some grease and a 3-hour nap. I've run out of steam. I just want to be pathetic and alone.
So my attention naturally begins to fade and I only half pay attention to the small-talk R is trying to engage in, because I'm trying to decide what Seamless special I want and brainstorming ways out of the awkward pauses and stilted conversation. Plus, it's becoming increasingly apparent to me that he's just kind of a piece of shit.
(Thanks again, Internet)
And as you can imagine, it's not exactly pumping me up to know that I can only consistently attract militant misogynists and those douchebags trapped in a permanent haze of fat blunts and fake boobs. I'm tired and grouchy, and while making my disinterest apparent isn't my normal order of operations, I figure I need an excuse to go wipe off my fogged-up glasses and the snot dribbling down my face.
Guess that's what happens when you're conflict adverse and have already tried to exit a conversation through multiple different avenues. Which only resulted in him realizing that I'm a compulsive liar who doesn't actually have a cat, am home alone and have already showered.
R, for some reason, also won't take "I'm tired" as a legitimate excuse. Apparently possessing the kind of control freak/emotionally manipulative attitude that sets off warning bells in my head. TBH, at this moment I'm actually feeling relieved that he skipped town before I could repeat past mistakes.
"...And yeah, it's been great so far. I've matched up with 5 locals on Tinder already. Probably cause I have the biggest Phnom Penh in this city," he winks. "You know."
I roll my eyes as I decide to keep things thematic with pad thai. Extra spicy and peanuts on the side. Though at this point, I don't know whether I can stomach anything, seeing as how I'm already disgusted with him and doubly grossed out by how easy it apparently is to get in my pants.
"Yeah, okay," I pull out my card, fingers crossed tight that I didn't drunkenly blow my last $15 on vodka sours last night.
I'm not exactly making any effort to continue the conversation. Right now, I'm too wrapped up in my own papaya salad/fish sauce brand of problems to care much about anyone or anything else. No matter how many STD-free hookers they picked up in the expat bar last night.
"Dude? Are you listening?"
"Mhmm," monotone intonation as I struggle to remember whether I changed the address field. "Cambodian penis, yeah."
I can hear the steely edge in his voice, "OK, well what's up with you then, Miss Narcissist? Long time no speak, right?"
Another shrug, "Just hangry." I pause to think for a second before tacking on a, "Per usual."
"Yeah, that was pretty apparent after you ate those Cheese Puffs off the bar floor."
My turn to glare. He smirks, pleased to finally engage me.
"Didn't think you were sober enough to notice."
"Well I got to see your ass when you bent over, so yeah I noticed."
He's just playing the belligerent boy and I cannot believe this bullshit. I almost want to shout at him to grow the fuck up because it's not cute and that's why he's a solo farang stuck venting to a girl he couldn't even cum in.
"Whatever," I sniff, done with beating around the bush and eager to call him out for being a complete dick. "Look, to be honest, I don't know why we're still talking. You vented, I listened, you reciprocated, I cried. I have no other obligation to you. What else do you need?"
We bitch back and forth for a bit, two curmudgeonly grumps growing more and more frustrated with each other until it ends with me hanging up and blocking his presence on all forms of IM and social media.
It takes me aback for about a second and I feel terrible for approximately half of that. That is until I realize, it's just as well. I'll finally get what I want. Solitary quiet and soggy rice noodles.
