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Oh. You’re THAT Guy.

May 18, 2010

I know that we met on eHarmony, which means that I assumed that you’d been sort of pre-screened for aberrant behavior, and you assumed that we were going to get married sometime in the next fifteen minutes, but see, we were both wrong, and  we need to clear some things up before this gets any worse.

1.  There’s no need to tell me how much money you make before we even meet. I don’t need to know that. In fact, that’s one of those things that I don’t ever really want to know until it’s completely necessary. What qualifies as necessary? Filing joint tax returns. If your salary is the best thing you’ve got going for you, then we’re probably already done here.

2. Stop yelling. Really. I know (because you told me like four bajilliondy times) that you’re deaf in your right ear, but don’t punish me for it. I do not need to be deaf in my right ear as well, and now everyone in this whole restaurant knows how little sleep you just got and how much you like Farscape BECAUSE YOU JUST YELLED IT LIKE THE TOWN CRIER.

3. I do not understand why you took a picture of all the things on your coffee table and sent it to me, and then an hour later sent me a description of each one of those items. I can’t tell what they are. Your cell phone takes crappy pictures. Also, I do not give a shit, not even a little.

4. Speaking of phones, don’t touch mine. It creeped me out when you asked me via email what kind of phone I have, but I assumed it was just because you’re one of those evangelical iPhone types (who are, by the way, the only reason I don’t have an iPhone myself). But look, man, when we’re sitting at a table over drinks and you actually reach over and use your hands and pick my phone up to look at it, I’m gonna have to call it a night. I know it’s a device, but it’s MY device. It’s my solitary means of communication with the whole world and it sleeps next to me in the bed and it’s the last thing I touch at night and the first thing I touch when I wake up. Touching it is NOT okay. In fact, it’s so far past okay that I need opera glasses to see the line of where okay was. I would feel less molested of you’d petted my hair or put your finger in my nose.

5. I really appreciate your enthusiasm for a job well done, and hey, it’s swell that you’ve got a solid work ethic or whatever, but I am inclined to believe that you’re exaggerating just a wee tiny bit when you claim that everyone you work with is a shit-stabbing retard with their heads on backwards. I’m pretty sure all the glaciers aren’t going to melt if you’re not on that conference call, Mr. Self-Aggrandizement, and I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who thinks you’re a big giant superhero. Okay, so maybe the glaciers are going to melt anyway, but you’re not so important as to be responsible for anything THAT vital. You’re the guy who knows everything, listens to nothing and the dude everyone makes fun of at work. Why does this matter to me? Let’s examine in #6.

6. You run roughshod over me in conversation. I thought for a minute it was because you’re half-deaf (though woefully NOT half-mute). It’s not that you can’t hear me talking, though. It’s that you like the sound of yourownself talking more. And that’s fine, because you live by yourself, which means that everyone you live with totally loves what you have to say, but me? I’m not that interested. You don’t listen. And if you don’t listen to me when I’m talking, how are you ever going to take direction and be a decent lover in bed? Do you see the correlation? See how these things are related? The more you run your mouth, the less I want to have sex with you.

7. I told you what I did for a living and then you asked where I worked. I said I’d rather not say. You took it as a challenge. I said no, look, my job is to protect the brand and I don’t want anyone to associate my own behavior with the company whose public relations and marketing I am responsible for. You pushed again and assured me you weren’t going to stalk me (which was kind of when I knew you would). I finally closed the conversation by telling you that it was Friday night and I was just done talking about work for the week. So later that night, after you’ve googled me with the frenzy of a masturbating zoo monkey, texting me at 4:00 in the morning to tell me that you figured out where I work and now have my direct line to my desk was probably NOT the wisest idea. I wasn’t challenging you to a personal information scavenger hunt. I was letting you know where my boundary was. Not respecting boundaries, however, is apparently something you’re really good at.

And finally, 8. There are a few things that are never okay with me. We like to call them “a hard no,” which means there’s no room for negotiation, they’re not up for discussion and we don’t even joke about them. These are boundaries that have got to be respected, and it’s an automatic disqualification to even look like you’re headed in that direction. Seriously, powderkeg, dude. No touchy. These things include: cruelty to animals of any kind, cuteness irrelevant; stating, either explicitly or implied, that the city of Boston is less than a fairytale Emerald City for of magic and wonderment; trying to sneak it in my ass; homophobia; fat jokes or movies about fat jokes (I’m lookin’ at you, Shallow Hal), making the hand gesture commonly known as “the shocker;” and most importantly, racism. Of any sort, against any people. Now, there is a difference (though it’s subtle, and you’re not, clearly) between making racist statements and actually examining cultural differences through economic, educational and healthcare disparities, but before we can have the conversation about GOP leader Michael Steele, I need to be satisfied in the knowledge that you’re not an idiot. So when we’re talking about teen pregnancy and dropout rates (because it affects my job) and you say, “Yeah, every Shanequah’s squeezing out baby after baby for her food stamps,” we are done here.

No, really. DONE. Seacrest OUT. There is not a context where that phrase is okay. I honestly have no idea how you even fixed your lips to make those words to me.

“Oh. You’re THAT guy,” I said, and told you to have a good night and hung up. Which was evidently your cue to text me at least once an hour for the next seven hours, all through the night, alternately making excuses, cajoling, begging and then insulting me. I responded only once, stating why I wouldn’t be spending any more time on this or on you. And to that, you sent another 15 or 20 text messages disputing the definition of the word “boorish.”

I stand by my claim. You are THAT guy. You are the loud guy, the arsy guy, the racist guy and more alarmingly, you are the stalker guy.

But you are also the single guy, and the dying-alone-by-himself guy, and the hiring-hookers guy, and for that I’m grateful.

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3 Comments leave one →
  1. May 19, 2010 11:25 am

    That’s good!

  2. Laurie permalink
    May 25, 2010 2:46 am

    Ah. This sounds terrible, but you make it so funny. Do I need to send you pepper spray? I want to know what his ex’s are like!

  3. Coco permalink
    June 2, 2010 10:23 pm

    So later that night, after you’ve googled me with the frenzy of a masturbating zoo monkey, texting me at 4:00 in the morning to tell me that you figured out where I work and now have my direct line to my desk was probably NOT the wisest idea. I wasn’t challenging you to a personal information scavenger hunt. I was letting you know where my boundary was. Not respecting boundaries, however, is apparently something you’re really good at.

    This entire paragraph made me laugh until my tongue fell out. I’m so glad I clicked over here today.

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