New Readers refer back to “Escape to Miami” & “Who Exactly is This Terd”
“You can tell a lot about a person from what kind of art they have hanging in their home.”, Shwolf said. I wish it had registered to me when he first said that to look at the art in our very own apartment. There were clues of insane assholery all around me. I was oblivious to them until one day, in the final days of us living together, I sat in our high-rise Miami apartment alone. I remembered what he had said many months before. I looked around the place; Warhol’s gun, Salvador Dali- insane, Robert DeNiro from Taxi Driver- wack job, man kneeling down with arms outstretched- staple of any Miami Douche lord’s apartment. Holy shit! He has been dropping clues for me this whole time. Here’s the tea…
As if his intolerable obsession with Homegoods or any other sheets and linen place wasn’t enough for a “tough guy” covered in tattoos, he also had a shopping addiction. Ferragamo shoes, Hugo Boss polos, LV, Dolce Gabbana, if it was boujee brand name, he had to have it!
We would make plans to go out to dinner on the weekend, but almost always ended up staying home because he couldn’t find anything to wear, even with all of those brand name clothes. Outfit change, after outfit change, “THIS LOOKS STUPID!” he would yell ripping the shirt off and throwing it on the floor for one of the dogs to piss on.
In the beginning I would say “No! It looks good! Look at your muscles! They are so big!” or some other encouraging positive thing that never worked anyway. Towards the end of our relationship, knowing what a lying miserable toad he was, I would sit on the bed and laugh. It was mean, but COME ON! What grown adult man buys a fucking polo shirt with little sail boats or anchors on it? “YOU’RE LAUGHING AT ME? I’M JUST A FUCKING JOKE TO YOU!” he would say.
I was not necessarily laughing at him, but more at the routine of the self-pity fashion show that would take place anytime we tried to go anywhere.
I wanted him to feel good about himself, but his constant need of validation was starting to wear on me. He was literally sucking the energy right out of me. Where I was once a some-what positive, hope for the best type of person- I became negative and shitty, insecure like him because of the lies and cheating. The only way I knew how to cope or regain my energy back was to laugh and usually it was at his expense.
One Friday afternoon I told him an old friend of mine texted me, he was in Miami and wanted to meet for drinks. “You dated this guy didn’t you.” he said. Never in my life, but I knew where it was going and decided to let it go. He got extremely pissed off over drinks he himself was invited to attend. I grabbed the I-pad where all of his text messages showed up to remind him he was texting his ex-girlfriend’s old best friend about a “vacuum floor polisher” and asking to meet her for drinks. Why was it okay for him to do these things and have friends of the opposite sex, but not me?
“I’m tired of this one sided bullshit.” I said. “Good! I’m leaving. I’m going out.” he replied. He called one of his sheep and made plans. I laid down on the bed and didn’t say a word. I really wanted him to go, but he wouldn’t get past his third pair of tried on jeans. I knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
I was too calm. That was not the reaction he expected. In his cheating, dishonest mind I had made plans to go out with my guy friend. He probably envisioned me meeting up with him for a wild cocaine fueled sex romp on the town. He couldn’t let that happen. He was the only one allowed to meet up with other women for drinks and dinner alone.
He paced in and out of the room waiting for me to give him a reaction. Nothing.
Finally he couldn’t take it anymore he busted in the room and grabbed his chest like Fred Sanford faking a heart attack. “I CAN’T TAKE THIS SHIT ANYMORE!! DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE?” he screamed. “Not really.” I said, turning on the t.v. He walked out of the room and into the other bathroom. I heard a loud CRASH, BOOM, BANG, but still didn’t get up from the bed. The dogs, not immune to his melodramatic behavior, dove under the sheets for cover. I began to laugh, picturing him throwing things around the bathroom in hopes of getting his desired reaction.
About ten minutes went by and he came into the room exasperated. “I WAS JUST LAYING ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR! YOU DON’T EVEN CARE ABOUT ME! WHAT IF I WAS DEAD!” he yelled. “Well, I thought you were going out.” I said. He came and laid down next to me. “I don’t even feel like it anymore.” he said. “Yeah, most people that have heart attacks don’t go out afterwards.” I replied. I turned to him and gave him my signature smug smirk that he would later claim was the “face of evil”.
We had crazy make up sex, ordered food, and sat in silence watching movies for the rest of the night. That was the routine. Pity party fashion show, insane argument, make up sex, food, silent treatment.
The definition of insanity is repeating the same pattern over and over even though it is toxic and detrimental to ones health. I was literally allowing myself to go insane and Shwolf was driving the train. #nowthatsthefuckingtea