I can only assume that the following is a stunning example of what happens when arrogant people of limited intelligence spend their teen years combining Jack Kerouac with LSD. Believe it or not, I’ve cut this baby down by half—not only because of space constraints, but to save you from boredom. You’ll notice that there is no actual question contained in this missive, so I’ve addressed my reply to the poor girl who has deluded herself into thinking she loves this smarmy moron. Dear Dategirl,
I dicked her around last year about this time, breaking up with her, then did that thing where you’re officially broken up but you still get to hang out and sleep together. Then I leave, move back to Seattle, stop loving her, broke up again even though we weren’t officially together, even though she loved me loving her, and gave it all back and more.
So back home I drink a bunch of O’Doul’s and realize I’m back inside the old haunt for the first time in 25 years. As I’m walking past the exact same sofa I used to sit at and suck down my beers and bongs, I’m stunned because I’m still there.
So I walk out into the desert for more than 40 days and 40 nights, and I keep walking until the day of the earthquake, and later, in the dead of night, I begin seeing this beautiful light: crepuscular rays, samurai swords gleaming with luminous incandescence, radiating benevolence from an unseen source, thrusting up into the night sky. . . . but the light wakes me up and I understand I was dreaming, and as soon as I’m full awake I remember what love is.
And even though she endures this, she keeps on loving even though she knows there is nothing to be had by it. And though I can be VERY STUPID, even I can eventually see A LIGHT THAT BURNS SO BRIGHT. So I tell her, while she’s here, that I’m almost 100 percent sure, but I want another 30 days to think it over. She cries. Three days later we say goodbye. I watch her walk down the jetway and wait until she turns the corner because I want to see her as long as possible. I drive back to Seattle armed with my 30-day wiggle room. I do my coffeehouse math-and-writing thing all day. Returning home in the evening I can feel her not being there; what was a home is now, again, just a house. I call her and tell her that I don’t need 30 days. I don’t want her to wait thinking the answer will be no, because the answer is definitely yes, and will she come live with me. And she cries again and after all of this dicking around she still says yes. She says yes.
She says yes because Sister is a Sucker.
Smug Sam
Dear Doormat,
Please do not move across the country to be with this sorry excuse for a man. I promise that as soon as you’ve given up your job, your home, and your friends, this twit will decide that he needs some more “wiggle room.” He wants you because he doesn’t have you. These types (and they’re not just men) are only intrigued when you’re elsewhere. Once you’re in his face, you’re history until you leave again.
This is a textbook case of a guy who tries to pass off his rabid self-obsession as self-awareness. There is a big difference between the two. You should ask yourself a couple questions before you uproot yourself.
Do you really want a man who drinks wussy fake beer and spends his time doing the “math and writing thing all day” in a coffeehouse? What the hell is the “math-and-writing thing?” This is why I don’t drink coffee—those places are full of wads like this one. Does this guy have any semblance of a sense of humor? It sure wouldn’t appear so by his self-indulgent, pseudo-philosophical ramblings. And I’m willing to bet cash money that he doesn’t care if you get off (as long as he does).
In closing I’d like to point out that Mr. Deep Mystical Carlos Castaneda Jr. was probably willing to give up his “wiggle room” because he couldn’t find another broad willing to let him wiggle his sorry little penis inside of her.
PLEASE write long, pretentious letters about your love life to dategirl@seattleweekly.com or Dategirl c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.
