You are Found Guilty of Gaslighting and Sentenced to Embarassment

I penned this post back in January on my phone in Penn Station after a conversation with a boy made me absolutely furious.

At the time, I didn’t have the balls to press post. Now I figure why the fuck not. So here ya’ll go.  

 

Let me pull a Taylor Swift blog style for a moment.

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Ever since the conception of Twenty Something What is my life and the first post I ever penned about “I’m Sorry” gifts, I’ve been on and off reeling from a rather interesting encounter with a supposed textbook Southern charmer from North Carolina. He is the mainly guilty party in my Hall of Lame I’m sorry gifts post.

Let me give you a quick profile. Thirty years old, small southern accent, works in the food industry and I met him in a bar that he managed. Super polite to everyone, but you’d never peg him as a huge ladies man. Initially perceived as a very sweet and nice guy that was raised to be a gentleman.

On top of being a liar, he is also guilty of gaslighting. For those unfamiliar with the term, it refers to an asshole who does something warranting a rather negative reaction. If said reaction makes them unhappy, they feebly attempt to make you feel bad about it. Gaslighting aims to make victims doubt their own perceptions and feel guilt.

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For those that need a more substantial example let’s say Mr. Charmer practically BEGS you to be exclusive with him, and as soon as you decide to not use your charm, sass, and boobs to get drinks and flings with other guys, his list of highly questionable actions start piling up. The sequence of events is as follows.

1. Charmer decides to bring me and my girlfriend to a friend’s house after meeting up with several people at a bar. Call it an after-party of sorts where I am meeting his friends for the first time. More people come to the house, including his friend of the female variety who I had met a few weeks previous. I met her, she met me, and we exchanged the usual pleasantries before he privately explained to me that they had never hooked up… ever. She comes in and I smile, and I am met with a look of drunken disdain. Girl was throwing shade like Regina George.

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Oh well, hello to you to. Well I brush it off since I’m in a 4loko haze and there’s the sweetest dog at the party that I’d rather hang out with anyways. My next question is why Charmer and this bitch are in the bathroom for an hour? I guess Charmer didn’t let his friends in on his manipulations, because it’s one of them who told me the truth about the two having previously dated.

Charmer spends the next 30 mins wondering why I’m not going anywhere near him and why I’m leaving the party. He insists they were “just talking” and for the next few weeks, continues to tell me nothing happened.

2. Then comes the actual sleeping with this girl, while we’re supposedly exclusive. I find out from her, not him. In fact he goes a few weeks without telling me. She also confirms my suspicions on the bathroom incident and when I bring it up, Charmer claims he really did not think anything happened, and that he didn’t find out the truth until a few days later. Apparently, he was really just THAT drunk.

3. He begs to be let back into my life. He actually wants to be my BOYFRIEND. He decides it’s worth cutting all ties with her even when I refuse to stop seeing other guys.

4. For a few months, he’s attempting to win me back, and in some cases it’s working. I refuse to be completely exclusive, but I rarely have time to spend with anyone else. I don’t think I can handle him talking to her again and he tells me he won’t. He tells me I’m the first girl he loves and that I’m the one. I take it with a grain of salt, even if I secretly wish he was being honest. I make it clear that any evidence that he’s speaking to her and I walk out the door.

5. I find out that he’s been texting her behind my back. BIG SURPRISE. I give him up.

6. He starts sending me I’m sorry gifts when I move to Boston.

7. I blog about it.

 

It wasn’t until yesterday that he discovered my blog post. The reaction to me calling his gifts pathetic and selfish set the following conversation into motion:

Charmer: I’m not sending you anything in the mail. I’m not trying to make you a true piece of artwork that I try really hard on and have it mocked on your blog. Maybe later when you think I’m no longer sending you “I’m Sorry” presents. Those were things to just make you smile and start your day off with a hit. I said I’m sorry, I don’t need to give you gifts for that.

Me: I dislike getting your gifts because every nice thing you do for me is in some way for you to feel less bad about what you did. Did you ever try to make me smile when it wasn’t after you did something horrible to me? No. The first nice thing you did for me was after the bathroom incident. The second? After you slept with her. Sending me the flowers? After you texted her. While we were together? Nothing.

Charmer: I’m trying to show you that I care.

Me: So you didn’t care for me when everything was fine and I wasn’t halfway walking out on you? You should’ve showed me you cared by NOT lying to me. I guess buying me flowers is a lot easier.

The conversation becomes circular. He keeps claiming he loves me and cares for me, while I start getting furious. I just want him to stop the word vomit! I hate word vomit… especially when it’s of the bullshit variety.

Charmer: I didn’t realize the damage I was causing when I did those things.

Me: Are you stupid?

And the gaslighting begins.

Charmer: Conversation is over if you’re going to start calling me stupid. I wish you could believe me when I tell you that I loved and cared for you but I know everything I did counters that.

Me: You lied to me? That’s stupid. You’re stupid because you did the one thing I said would result in me leaving and then bellyache about losing me. A stupid person counter acts what they want.

Charmer: Have a good night.

BUT ladies and gentlemen, it doesn’t end there. The gaslighting continues.

Charmer: I ask you not to call me stupid in this conversation and you do the opposite. I’ll talk to you all night and day about what happened to us but I’m not going to be talked down in this manner.

Me: If you don’t want to be a liar, don’t lie. If you don’t want to be a cheater, don’t cheat. If you don’t want to be called stupid…. you can get the idea. And I wonder how it feels when someone that supposedly cares for you does the exact opposite of what you ask…. hmm…

 

GASLIGHTING: Blaming me for calling you stupid… when stupid is as stupid does.

 

 

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LDF: Long Distance Flirting is STUPID

I’m going to give myself this. When it comes to relationships I’ve hiked through a lot of bullshit and back, almost to the point that I have sworn off anything serious for quite some time.

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But I still trek through, knee deep in horse shit, and experienced a semi-pseudo since sophomore year of college HUNGER GAMES of a relationship, cheating, and guys applauding me when I lost 25 pounds and had some serious self image issues. All of this, wishing blissfully for fucking NORMAL, whatever the hell that is. But I do know it doesn’t include fucking mind games, sexting your ex, or making your other significant other feel like they are a parasite sucking out your lifeblood rather than someone that you appreciate and share a nice co-dependent relationship with where parties put in the same fucking amount of effort holy FUCK I AM FURIOUS.

Anyways……..

Most of the above is for another time (sorry guys, but it’s STILL too soon for me tell the story of my experience as the MockingJay in the arena of friends with benefits, shit gets complicated, guys want what they can’t have death trap which I certainly don’t remember volunteering for).

I’m going to go share my experience with Long Distance Flirting and how it is JUST AS STUPID as volunteering oneself into the Hunger Games. It’s been over a year since I landed in Bahston and I never thought the first boy I would meet would be a Canadian that my friends endearingly called Canada Boy.

My first weekend, my roommate and I head out to a bar that would eventually become my stomping ground for the next year because they serve these wicked huge beers in 32oz mugs for $cheap. We are standing, next to a group of four guys and casually we succeed in striking up conversation about how they are all from Ottawa, and have traveled to NYC, Philly, and Boston in a USA tour of some sorts. Fast forward and Canada Boy and I are separated from the group to talk about sports and this kid is making me smile like you wouldn’t believe.

2xfast foward and he spends the night, while my roommate semi-kinda hooks up with his buddy. We talk about experiences and he explains that he had this ex that cheated on him, and a month before meeting me he was considering giving her another chance, when he sees her at the club making out with another guy. I share stories, and we both explain that we’re finished with cheaters.

3xfast foward and after he asks, we’re hanging out on what happens to be the last night he and his friends are spending in the States. How sweet. A follow up date after meeting at a bar? Mind blown.

Then what commences is 7 months of talking EVERYDAY with texts peppered with “you’re not like girls in Canada. You’re amazing and I’ve never met a girl like you. Move here and I’d be the happiest guy on the planet.” And of course his favorite line, “I miss your smile. I can’t wait to see it again.” Well I guess that last line was true because in that time span, he drove 8 hours to see me three times. We would spend our days walking the city, shopping, going to restaurants at the seaport, enjoying the Brazilian steakhouse in Copley, walking by the waterfront, going to Pourhouse to stand where we first met, and enjoying a Patriot or Bruins game. Before he would leave, he always left a sweet note on my desktop, talking about how much fun he had and how he couldn’t wait to see me again. He’d also surprise me with a Thank You gift: an Alex and Ani bracelet that he saw me eyeing, earrings that he noticed I didn’t have, cannolis from the North End, or chocolates and flowers.

So of COURSE I’m left thinking “holy crap, this guy doesn’t even see me and he appreciates me more than anyone I’ve ever met.” I was also left wondering how his She-Devil ex could have treated him the way she did. After 7 months I thought to send him a joint Christmas/early bday present because he needed to feel appreciated too.

Anddd then about a week and a half after sending that, there is a picture of him and her celebrating his bday together in early January.

BOOM! Yup that was the car of inevitable disappointment HITTING ME for ever engaging in LDF.

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So I do what I typically do in scenarios like this. I distance emotionally. I may still talk to the guy, but no more telling him I miss him. No more answering his texts when I should be focusing on meeting someone that lives in the same god damn country for Christ’s sake. And let’s get this straight. Distancing myself emotionally isn’t an IRRATIONAL thing. It’s fucking necessary, and if you’re going to look at me and say I over reacted then tell me what’s more irrational. Still pretending there were feelings there or moving on? Yeah so all of you on the girls always act irrational train… GO FACK YAHHSELVES.

My new found indifference is met with “why don’t you talk to me as much anymore? I always smile when I see your texts you but never text me first anymore. I have time off next week, what if I came to visit. I miss your smile. We just ran into each other, if you want me to delete her off of Facebook I will.”

No… I don’t want you to do anything. I’m annoyed because I’m putting emotional coin into this and she’s the fucking one that gets to take you out on your bday. Naturally LDF IS FUCKING POINTLESS.

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You may be thinking, “But, LDF is fine as long as there is a mutual understanding that both parties can do whatever they want after they separate. They should just enjoy the time that they have together when they visit each other, and then understand that only disappointment can come from actually caring for them since they will never be a couple.”

Well, I kind of have a secret to let you in on. I didn’t think it was necessary to expose on my blog to people like you because I thought it was obvious. But as time has gone on, I now feel the need to let everyone know in my public forum something about myself.

I.am.human.

YASSSSSS I am a human. I smile when I’m happy, and get giggly when I’m drunk, and cry when I’m sad, and dissapointed when my dreams fall apart, and determined when I go to the gym, and stressed when something feels beyond my reach.

So naturally, I smile when I meet a cute guy, and smile even more when said guy starts showing interesting, and I’m happy after our first kiss, and can’t stop laughing when I find him so perfectly funny. I get scared when I realize my feelings are stronger, and disappointed when I realize my effort isn’t being recognized, and feel quite sad when I get rejected that maybe I MAY even fucking shed a tear or two or three or fucking hell, a god damn river.

But the story doesn’t end yet. Canada boy decided to take a week off and come to the States to visit me, and I say sure. He arrives on a Friday and plans to leave the next Saturday morning, his longest visit yet. Well we got to Wednesday night when he receives a text from She-Devil while out of my room and his phone is sitting on my nightstand.

Homeboy doesn’t try to explain shit. I calmly ask, “are you going to look at that?” and he replies “I don’t want to, I know you’re disappointed.”

Yup. Yup. Sounds about right.

Canada boy doesn’t explain himself, and to be honest, he doesn’t need to. Because let’s face it: it’s LDF. Even I can admit I cannot be angry about this and hold it against him.

What I can do is tell him to pack his shit and leave in the morning, and just leave me alone for a bit because I am swearing off LDF. So I did.

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And then I blogged about it.

 

Purposely Missed Connections: Confessions of a TinderElla

Being a twentysomething living in the hustle and bustle of Boston, MA, my Tinder app gets flooded with pictures of hot guys cut from very different cloths. Whether it’s a Burly Bearded from Southie, a Muppie (Millennial Yuppie) from Back Bay, or a Hipster from Cambridge, I probably have swiped right and in the process killed any previous notion that I have a “type”.

With over 200 matches, I’ve only met a handful of real flesh, breathing people and I’d like to keep it that way, and there are multiple reasons why.

 

1. Tinder is like 2048, lots of swiping in one direction with the soul purpose of entertaining myself. I’m bored, and swiping takes little to no effort. This makes Tinder a great way to pass time before bed or when I’m on the crapper (yup, you may have just matched with a girl that is in the pissah). I already checked my text messages, Facebook notifications, Instagram comments and trending tweets. I’m already rendered cross eyed by endless games of 2048 and I’d rather look at men than multiples of 2.

2. Matches make me smile, because that guy that I think is sexy also thinks I’m sexy and maybe we’re sex-patable. Isn’t that a nice thought? Tinder is an ultimate confidence booster.

 

3. I’ll swipe left, for multiple reasons including gym selfies, children in your arms, or your dick pic. Or because, I just don’t find you attractive.

4. We matched and I’m on a roll so I’m going to keep swiping for another and then forget to message you.

5. Accidental Swipes can be double sided. We will never meet if you’re a bonafide hottie that I accidentally swiped left to when I was vigorously going through the bow wows and dick pics. We will also never meet if I accidentally swiped you right, as in, I did not mean to ever match with you.

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6. The first message was either one of two things. A boring “Hey” which did not tempt a conversation, or a “let’s swap pics”, “Hey there cutie”, or “I’m not a rooster but watch what this cock’ll-do-to-you”. Nope, not answering, but blocking. Also, all I ever did was swipe right. Do I owe you anything? No. So don’t follow up my inactivity with “Hey sexy where you at???” or get butthurt that you either bored me or creeped me out.

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7. Like an eager beaver, you want to meet right now. You noticed I was active a mile away, and you’re pretty much telling me to throw my pants back on and come to meet you when I’m curled up in bed next to my dog Moses. Nope, sorry, no.

8. Unless it’s food STAHP SHARING your unattractive stories that would make me run off into the hills with stones stuffed in my ears and forks in my eyes. I don’t want to know about your ex or your kids before I know that you actually exist. Just STAHP.

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9. U type lyke dis doughh and it isn’t funny. In the world of a qwerty keyboard, which I know you have since you have the Tinder app, you can afford to type out full words… though.

10. You aren’t 26, and Tinder lied because you’re an undergrad and too young for me Bro.

11. Catfish and the Craigslist Killer have made me second guess stepping out of my apartment for any online rendez-vous. It did however, make me want to be best friends with Nev and Max.

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So there you have it. I am not going to put on pants, leave my snuggly dog, and go through any meet-up-with-someone-and-awkwardly-stand-there anxiety for accidental swipes, no swipes, perverts, bores, undergrads, children, adults who type lyke children, or serial killers.

 

 

 

NYE with Beer and Feminism and Twenty Something What is My Life

I’ve been dreaming of this moment: a co-post with my fellow Binghamton drunkie A.Merc at Beer and Feminism.

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EXPECTATIONS VERSUS REALITY

My girl T.Ko over at Twenty Something What Is My Life is not only my favorite gorgeous lotus flower, but she’s also a seasoned Binghamton drinker which means the two of us know how to get drunk in sub-zero temperatures.

So, naturally, we would spend NYE together, and naturally we would go to some bougy Manhattan catering hall (Gotham Lounge) and naturally we would blog about it.

T.Ko and I, while obviously soulmates (tonight T.Ko will be an ethereal Asian angel wearing all white with soft gorgeous curls while I will be in a devilish black sequined pantsuit rocking a mohawk), have different expectations for what will go down on the final night of 2013.

Here are our own expectations, with the other’s dose of reality (i.e. T.Ko has already shot down my desire to find and bone a New York Ranger).

A.Merc’s Expectation: I will find and make-out with at least two boys and one girl throughout the night. They all will be at least eights on a scale of one to panty dropping.

T.Ko‘s Reality: A.Merc is clearly underestimating herself, I mean the girl is going out in a fucking pantsuit and mohawk. You’re welcome for finding that in the upturned racks at Urban Outfitters BTW. At least two boys in the first hour and half and another two after midnight. One girl is playing it safe. What she doesn’t realize is that drunk girls (especially drunk girls on New Years Eve) are all just playing a big game of monkey see monkey do—one girl sees her friend making out with a fellow vagina and the next thing you know it’s a giant tonsil hockey orgy.

T.Ko’s Expectation: While unsuccessful in the year 2013, T.Ko will ring in 2014 by finding the perfect balance of slightly tipsy and destroyingly hammered. She’s learned from her 2013 experiences, where a night out drinking will either turn into mothering one of her three roommates into bed at 2 a.m. or throwing up on the side of the street at 3:30 a.m and passing out on the couch while the room is spinning.

A.Merc’s Reality: T.Ko will ring in 2014 rip-roaringly drunk, partially because she will not have yet discovered her alcoholic sweet spot and partially because I will be ramming drinks down her throat the entire night to make the insane amount of money we are spending sting a smidge less. Hopefully she will be my puking partner in crime and we can decorate the LIRR car with our multi-colored vomit.

A.Merc’s Expectation:I will spend the entire night in my fantastic shoes, dancing like Britney Spears and not feeling any pain in my toes whatsoever. I will not take my shoes off.

T.Ko’s Reality: T.Ko is surprised that after all her time in Binghamton she has never heard a Long Island girl have a raging bitch fest over something only mildly dramatic like hurt toes. Tonight that’s gonna change. It will all start an hour into dancing at Gotham, where Alyssa cannot fight the temptation to twerk, work, and dance her pierced tits off. All that dancing will pay a heavy price, not only on her feet, but on my ears and patience. I will mutter death threats under my breath the entire night.

T.Ko’s Expectation: I guarantee I will meet one guy tonight that will consider me the ideal woman, want to wife me up, and spend the entire night following me around. That’s not me being cocky (“Or is it?”—A.Merc), I tend to not give off the suck my face vibe, but actually manage to hold intelligent and captivating conversations. No matter how hard I try not to be, I always end up being the girl you want to take home to mom and dad, whether Asians are your thing or not.

A.Merc’s Reality: T.KO is underestimating the power of the Asian persuasion. While I will be making a fool of myself in some darkened corner, T.Ko will most likely be getting proposed to just as the ball drops, in a touching act of love at first sight from some poor soul who mistakes her kindness as an act of love. BTW I want to be maid of honor at the wedding.