Sometimes They Come Back . . .

like herpes or birthdays. No one actually wants them to recur, but alas . . .

Though I managed to extricate myself from my mind-numbingly stupid evening with John and his dazzlingly incomprehensible drivel, he still had my number and, unfortunately, continued to use it against met. After sending him what I considered an obligatory text message, "home safe . . . thanks for dinner" (I didn't want him thinking I was mangled and/or wrapped around a tree, lest he decide to come look for me), he instantly called me back. I couldn't very well answer since: a) I was actually at Olive or Twist, which was decidedly louder than any sane person's home would ever be; and b) I'd rather shove my French Martini up my own ass than have another conversation with this guy. Aside from being completely oblivious to the meanings behind unambiguous body language cues, John also failed to grasp the concept that a text message clearly signifies that the sender does not actually want to engage in full-on verbal communication. Again, this boy is not smart . . . at all.

He left a message: "Got your text . . . blah blah . . . want to talk . . . blah blah blah." Honestly, I cannot understand what he is saying, and I truly believe it is because he makes up his own words.

Two days later, I'm nursing a wicked hangover on a friend's couch when John calls again. I'm screening, obviously, and he leaves a message asking if I'd like to have breakfast with him. This invitation doesn't even warrant a response in my mind. Over the course of the following week, I get a number of missed calls from him; although "missed" is a rather misleading term, since I was actively watching my phone in disgust and horror each time it rang. Finally he resorted to leaving a text re: how he thought we had a good time (don't ever speak for me . . . especially when you haven't quite mastered the English language), but he hadn't heard from me and wondered if he said something wrong (something? try every last, long-winded syllable that oozed out of your mouth was very, very wrong). The text is so long, my phone cuts it off. Even my phone can't stand his irritating, unintelligible jabber.

The next week I began receiving a series of "blocked number" calls. I, like every other woman who values her privacy and/or personal safety, did not answer these either. But they persisted . . . daily . . . sometimes twice daily . . . and were received at all hours of the day, from 9 am to 11 pm. After about 15 or 20 of these nuisances, I figured I had to answer or they would never cease. Do I even have to mention whose inarticulate voice I heard on the other end?

What is wrong with this picture? Let me count the ways:

1. Our date was two weeks ago. Please, let it go.
2. I wouldn't answer and/or return your previous 100 phone calls. What is nurturing your delusion that I would want to speak with you now?
3. If you have to block your phone number in order to have your call answered, then you are aware that you are being avoided. Use this awareness and stop calling.

What's even more disturbing than the fact that he deceitfully commandeered my phone line, is that he somehow managed to reach a whole new level of crazy once he started talking.

First, he inquired into why he had not heard from me, being that we had such a good time on our date and all. I told him that I, though unemployed, had been "busy," which is a polite way of saying "not interested." (Unless you are a moron, and then apparently it means legitimately busy.)

He went on about how we had so much in common since we were both of Italian and Irish heritage. I tend to disagree. It's not like we are both Bhutanese and Mauritanian. And since neither of us were born in and/or have ever traveled to either country, that makes us both American and, ergo, having so much in common with the 300 million other Americans in the United States.

He also pondered whether my lack of post-date correspondence resulted from me being disappointed after not receiving a kiss at the end of the night. This is a revolting theory, and I choose not to discuss it at length. Considering that I ran to my car for refuge, purposely making any bodily contact physically impossible, this idea is quite possibly the stupidest thing I've ever heard. The only response I could muster was, "No, I most definitely did not want a kiss."

Then he broke out the big guns . . . he informed me that he was 40 and ready for marriage. Interesting . . . I'm 29 and ready to get the hell off the phone with you. He continued to explain that I probably thought he was a 26-year-old kid just looking for a good time (I'm getting really tired of this dipshit telling me what I think), but in actuality he was 40 and has wanted to get married for a while. Then he lamented that his 14-year-old niece will probably get married before he does (which sounds reasonable to me), and she'll ask him, "Uncle John, why didn't you ever get married?" and he'll answer, "Well, I once went on a date with this girl (insert my name here) but she was too busy."

At this point I couldn't contain my laughter. Fortunately, the chode on the other end didn't even realize I was laughing at the absurd nonsense he was feeding me. I was about ready to make up an excuse and hang up when he asked me out for the following night. I told him I had plans, which wasn't even a lie (though I would have lied if I didn't have plans), and this tard attempts to invite himself out with me and my friends. He told me to call him the next day to let him know where my friends and I were going be. I agreed, since I was getting good at this whole lying bit and all. But when he asked me for my last name, I had to hang up. That would have given him way too much stalker ammo.

Yes, he called the next day (leaving a message, of which only 1/3 was even audible) . . . and the day after that. Then I got a bunch of "blocked number" calls. I've just stopped answering my phone altogether. Whatever . . . nobody good ever calls me anyway.