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Another ending — By Mack

She doesn’t even use the recycling bin.

It was a few months ago.

We’re walking back to the apartment. There’s all this tension. The conversation is awkward and flat. Somethin’s up. Somethin’ she needs to say but either doesn’t want to or doesn’t want to deal with the fallout. I’m 98% sure she’s about to break things off.

I’ve felt this coming for about 3 weeks. Last week I crossed from suspicion to being pretty damn sure. The change in the texts, that’s a big red flag. When you first start, they’re like Christmas presents. You’re damn hungry for them. Over time you relax, but they still got that hint of excitement. That immediacy to respond, when that goes, then you know you’re in trouble. Granted, people get busy. Involved. They’re “going through something.” But if they’re still into you they’ll find a way to get back to you. They’ll give you an “authentic response.” Not a cookie cut one. And the divide grows from there.

We’re a block from the apartment. 98% sure. It’s funny because there’s still 2% of me that’s still in denial. Maybe it is all in my head. Maybe she really is going through something. For some stupid reason I think that if I get her back to my room, get her in my bed, I can somehow fix it. I don’t know, remind her of the physical connection? Maybe I just want her one more time.

Then she stops. She looks down. Brushes her hair out of her face. Then looks up at me. It’s this moment, this second, where I’m sure it’s coming. But it hasn’t happened yet! She’s still mine! This look is coming from one place, the place of her being my girlfriend. When she opens her mouth and says what she gonna say, it’ll be from somewhere else. Foreign. Independent. And I won’t be welcome anymore.

My mind has jumps to a month ago. The last “good” time we had together. I say good, I mean fun. I had already started to figure the break up was coming. But it was something I could still fix back then. We’re outside the hospital, playing like 6 year-olds along the fence of this closed cafe. Her eyes were so different then. Filled with…I don’t know…some kind of wonder. It was like she was drinking me in.

She hops off the fence, grabs my hand, runs across the street demanding we lie in the grass. The thought of an ant or spider crawling on makes me roll my eyes. As I light my cigarette, I wonder if she’s too young for me. But it’s too late, she pulls me down. She gives me that look again. It makes me feel like some sort of diamond. Girls don’t usually make me feel precious. It is a damn sweet memory.

In the now. She begins to speak. The thing that I hate, is that what she’s gonna say, it changes that memory. Like, corrupts it. Making me question it. For a while, I just assume it was a lie. How could she be so damn in love with me then and now…nothing?…”thanks for playing, here’s a copy of the home game.” I’ll eventually figure it was a misunderstanding.

She says the words I know she has to say. All of a sudden I’m so damn hot. I glaze over a bit. She talks. When I was younger man I might have pleaded and begged. When I was younger. but not quite that young, I might have attacked her. Been vile. If I did truly feel like she was the “one” I might lay it all on the line pouring my heart out. But deep down I know she wasn’t. At least not from our relationship so far. What’s funny is that I really wanted her to be the “one.” But I’m starting to believe I may not be capable of feeling that for anyone. So instead of all those other actions, I just…comply.

We reach an understanding. As much of one as I think we can reach. And we have that goodbye kiss. That take in all and everything you can. It is a mix of sweet familiarity and the pain of euthanized hope. I feel her tears on my cheek as we pull away half an inch. Just breathing, thinking, feeling. Lingering in hesitation to let go. That uncomfortable heat returns. It’s an anxious feeling, but I stomach it for as long as I can. We eventually
we do let go and slowly back away from each other.

Thank you’s and pleasant words are exchanged. I ask her what she’s going to do. She says she’s gonna stay at a friend’s tonight. Then I clarify, I mean with the roommate situation.

“I’m moving out.”

“Gonna go to Brooklyn or somethin’?”

“Actually, I’m going to move back to Seattle. I’ve been thinking about leaving New York for a while.”

So long…

It’s the 2nd gut bomb of the night, but I didn’t see this one coming. I figure it’s for the best. I watch her leave for her friend’s for the night. There a good breath of relief. The anticipation of doom is finally gone. But of course I’m sad and somewhat angry. But mostly sad. I’ll miss Jill.

-Mack-ified for your enjoyment.

 
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Posted by on November 2, 2012 in By Mack, Dating

 

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And now the thrilling conclusion…Quantum Entropy! – By Mack

The conclusion.

Soooo…this post is about a month and a half over due. Whoops. But better late than never, right? For those who don’t remember you can catch up with the preceding saga here (1) and here (2). Otherwise shorter synopsis: cool, smart, and sexy dorky girl (who we will call Quantum Entropy) I had a connection with and was dating.  However there was a faint hint of of something being “a little off.”

When planning a second date, dinner and drinks simply won’t do. It usually calls for something to wow her, or at least inspire fun. Normally I’d have to rack my brain, but with Quantum, I had the comfort to take it easy. We ended up at an improv show a friend of mine works for. I found myself up on stage giving suggestion to the actors. Some of my suggestions  were so out there one of them stopped and said “really?” I tried to get Quantum to go volunteer (by grabbing her hand and raising it myself) but she punched my arm and playfully called me an ass.

Laughter may not actually be the best medicine, I’m pretty sure it’s an aphrodisiac as we were all over each other at the bar.  About a half a dozen drinks later, we’re stumbling around the streets of New York looking for a Boar’s Head deli. I swear it was the only mile in Manhattan without one. We ended up in a Walgreens for a bottle of water when we passed some inflatable lawn furniture. Quantum chimed in with, “You know there are people who are into balloons. Like for sex.” To which I snapped back, “They’re called ‘looners.’ It’s a fetish.” She gave me a perplexed look. “You’re not into that are you?”

I should have said no. I’m not into balloons or any other kinky fetishes.  But there was something that stuck out to me. Maybe it was a suspicion of a closed mindedness I wanted to challenge. Maybe it was the tone in her voice, the implied condescension. Maybe it was the look on her face of perturbed dissatisfaction. I didn’t think she was unattractive at all, but in that moment she was. So I replied, “What if I was?

“I don’t think I could date you,” she retorted.  I just laughed it off.  But I don’t think I ever answered her.

We ended up going back to her place but upon entering the apartment she warned me that her roommate was a little “weird.” The plump (but not fat) middle aged man, named Dirk, sat at his dinner table with a look of dissatisfaction. I tried, in my own charming manner, to engage him. I’m usually pretty good at winning people over, even the socially inept. He just stared at me and answered my questions with short single syllable responses. “Yes,” “no,” and the dismissive”huh.” Quantum grabbed me, ushering me into her room.

“Dirk can be a little creepy, but the rent is cheap.”

“And I’m sure he doesn’t charge extra for watching you as you sleep.” My joke didn’t go over well as she gave me a terrified look. “I’m kidding.”

“I think he might have cameras in here.” With this phrase I’d normally start to question the sanity of my present company. But the Dirk really was creepy. “Let’s get out of here” she suggested.  We took a cab back to my place, eating our sandwiches during the ride. Quantum gave me excuses why she was still rooming with the guy. Being a full time student doesn’t leave much time for work and living in Chelsea isn’t cheap. But anyway you slice it, creepy crazy roommate was a mood killer.

Back at my place we got back into it, but there was something askew.  Maybe it was the fetish comment, maybe it was my suspicions of her paranoia, and maybe the thought of Dirk possibly scheming of ways to kill me and collect my pubic hair. Whatever it was, we both couldn’t get lost in the moment. Suddenly Quantum chimed in, “You know what would be fun?” She pulled out a prescription pill bottle.  “I don’t think I need any Viagra.”

“No, it’s an Ambien. It’s more fun that way.”

“I’m still pretty drunk. Is that safe?”

“It makes it better.”

My powers of deduction and reasoning were greatly diminished at that point. I think we had already each done a shot when we got into my room. But I decided what the hell, down the hatch. And for a good bit it was fun…and then I woke up. As you can guess much of the night is fuzzy. So I don’t remember what I said to Quantum as she was getting dressed to sneak out my door. So the rest of this is pretty much me guessing what we said to each other.

“Where are you going?”

“I think…I think I’m going to go home.”

“What? Why? I was hoping to wake up next to you.”

“I’m not really a cuddler.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright? You had an Ambien too.”

“I’ll be fine. I have them like every night.”

“Umm…okay…”

Had I not been super dugged/drunk, I would have been more insistent about her staying. I wouldn’t have been good to go home. Granted I wouldn’t have made her sleep with me if she wasn’t comfortable (I could always take the couch.) I don’t see how should could have made it home safe. Especially with Dirk probably waiting for her. But there’s only so much I could do in that state and holding my head up wasn’t one of them. Quantum walked out of my apartment and out of my life. I think we may have had one superficial text conversation after that. But otherwise that well had dried up.

To start anew.

–Big Mack Attack.  o_O*

 
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Posted by on August 10, 2012 in By Mack, Dating

 

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Quantum Entropy Stage Two: The First Date — By Mack

There’s nothing like that feeling when things are clicking at the beginning of a relationship. The excitement of your text messages immediately being returned.  That person getting your jokes. Testing the waters of sexual innuendo. It’s like crack.  But that inertia can only last for so long.  A first meet up must be necessary. Plus well, that’s the point.

But as vibrant and fun as the text message portion can be, when you actually meet the person all can go to hell. Maybe they don’t look like their picture. Maybe they’re an ass hole. You must remember, when you first meet someone, we take what we know then fill in the gaps with our imaginations. We do it with presidential candidates, jobs, everything. So when you’re sitting at that table for the first time, the reality gets defined as your hopeful imaginings die.  And for that reason (among others) that first date I tend to make lite. Coffee, maybe a bar. NEVER dinner.

I met Quantum Entropy for dinner at a place called the Crooked Knife. (yup I just contradicted myself.) Upon seeing her, I think my impression was “I think this could work.” Granted I was hoping for “My God! Her pictures don’t do her justice!,” but at least it wasn’t “oh Lord, so that’s why she didn’t have any pictures from the neck down.” Her style wasn’t quite a match and if anything you do to your nails impedes any hand movement, it’s a turn off, but I knew she was from Jersey when I messaged her.  However, in addition to the shared interested/sense of humor she also had a little bit of fire. And has been a while since I’ve played with fire.

The date itself did what I hoped. It continued that momentum where the text messages left off. But then it did even more. Dinner finished, we each had two drinks, the restaurant was closing. Most first dates that would be it. But then her fire came out and she wasn’t done with me. We hit the bar next door. When you get caught up with someone there is a magic that can happen. Like a shared solitude that the rest of the world can’t penetrate.  The Crooked Knife had been a place where a server brings your drinks on a tray. This bar was a place you had to shout at the fat old bartender over a row of barflies to get your shots.

I don’t remember when the first kiss happened. I just remember sitting on couches towards the back while the MTV music awards were on. Or maybe it was the Grammy’s. Either way an old man was looking at us and Adele just won album of the year. I didn’t care because Quantum Entrophy was playing with my beard as she made out with me. The she pulled away and looked at me with what I call hungry eyes as she said, “You’re going to be fun.”

I offered to walk her home ( she lives like 2 blocks away ) to which she politely refused.
“You sure?”
“Yea, I just…have this thing…”
“Okay?”
“I know you’re not crazy, I have this thing about guys knowing where I live…I’ve had some bad experiences…”

And we left it at that. But now I was wondering what I was dealing with. Was this an overly cautious girl or was she hiding something?  Come back next week to find out!

–Big Mack Attack

 
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Posted by on June 23, 2012 in By Mack, Dating

 

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A New York attitude — By Jill

It’s on!

Moving from Seattle Washington to Manhattan has definitely added a bit of an edge. Maybe it’s the cramped spaces, high prices, crappy service, or just every single person’s damn certainty that they are right and they’ll tell you so with the snarkiest comment they can think of.  Or maybe I’m just getting older. Whatever the cause, things that I would have shrugged off in Seattle, in New York I get into a grudge match over.

So I’m walkin’ yesterday listening to This American Life. (Yes some parts of Seattle me still exist.) I cross the street when all of a sudden I hear…

Sure, take your time!

I turn around to see some douche bag in an SUV, button down shirt with rolled up sleeves, and sunglasses stopped in the middle of the street yelling at me. I look around seeing no other traffic but this asshole’s car and reply…

You must be in such a hurry if you stopping to have a tissy fit.
You’re walking around with your head phones for chistsake!
Don’t have a fuckin’ heart attack or nothin’.
Why don’t you use the fuckin’ cross walk next time?
What the fuck you wearin’ sunglasses for? It’s overcast.
You can suck my dick.

By then, this fucktard who was in such a hurry, now has four cars behind him honking for him to get moving.

Looks like I’m not only one who wants you to get the fuck out of here.

The impulse to snap back at someone comes so much easier now. I used to get stifled. Granted I don’t go looking for people to verbally abuse, but if you’re going to bitch me out, you’d better be ready for a bit of a fight. Besides, who the still drives an SUV anyway?

 
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Posted by on June 14, 2012 in By Jill

 

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The Post-It Date — By Mack

Continued from…The New York Post Date!

With one glance I knew…I wasn’t into her. And that this was going to be a very awkward date. Now you can chide me all you want about “beauty being on the inside” or that you fall in love with the person, but if that attraction isn’t there, it’s not there. Men fall in love with their eyes, people. It’s a fact of life.

We went off, shared a pitcher of beer, and bowled a couple of games. We both sucked by the way. Simply put we just didn’t have anything to talk about. I did my best to make the date fun. And thank God, it wasn’t a dinner date. When a date starts, you have the “exchange” part where you are essentially casting lines hoping something hooks. If it does, you’ve got conversation. When a conversation thread dies both daters feel it and it’s almost a capitulation to “cast another line.” We didn’t hook very much. The bowling really took the attention off the boring conversation. Don’t get my wrong. She was a nice girl. Teacher, worked with disabled kids, loves empanadas. But I’ve spent too long in relationships with nice girls because I was too afraid to reject them, hoping I’d fall in love with their inner self. Yea never happened.

We finished our hour of bowling but the Post was supposed to send a photographer to take pictures of us on the date. Brooklyn Bowl desperately wanted their lane back. They had paying customers. We shrugged off the manager’s dirty looks as we waited for the increasingly late photographer. Eventually he showed up and had us do a series of fun picture. While striking a pose, my bowling ball hit her bowling ball (with my finger in between the two balls.) It wasnt’ pretty.

I walked home to the Brooklyn train station alone, drunk on 3/4 a pitcher of beer, nursing my finger, pondering how I would write my mandatory recap (that had to be written by the morning for Callie.) I didn’t know how to say I wasn’t into her without making her or me sound bad. I felt because her thighs weren’t thin enough, or that her earrings were too big, or her face wasn’t pretty enough for me that that some how made me the bad guy.  And I certainly didn’t want to say that about her in print.

I made it home, threw something together and sent it off to Callie. What actually got written was a crock of shit. But what else do you expect from the New York Post?

–Big Mack Attack!

Ben’s note, here is the actual New York Post – Meet Market column. By the way, I never called her a “nice lady.”

http://www.nypost.com/p/entertainment/dating/strike_out_PAlOsfO4WEa3v9hIufxnbO

 
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Posted by on May 19, 2012 in By Mack, Dating

 

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