“I should have chopped his wood into bloody bits of confetti and sprinkled him along the edges of the interstate. The best ideas always come too late.”
Anyone familiar with the book/movie American Psycho? Well the guitar strumming, man-bun wearing, seemingly sweet and sensitive dude had merely been masking his inner Patrick Bateman until now. We were engaged in very normal and boring vanilla coitus (I hate that word) when out of nowhere he clamped both of his hands around my neck. The tone wasn’t so much in that playful erotic way, but more in that “bitch, I’m gonna squeeze the fucking essence of life from you” kind of way. I’ve never felt truly afraid in these types of situations until that night. And I even dated a jerkoff who would blindfold me with black saranwrap, stuff a scarf in my mouth and run the tip of an extremely intimidating knife over my backside, and all the while berating me with slurs like “slut” or “filthy whore.” Yeah, he didn’t have an imaginative vocabulary. I never could take him seriously though since he played competitive chess, had a pierced dick and would only drink room temperature LaCroix. He had “pussy incapable of murder” written all over his tattood body.
I reached up and began pulling and scratching at The Hillside Stranger’s hands, but his fingers just squeezed harder and deeper into my skin until my eyes started to sting, and tears ran down the side of my face. I was really sad that the guy who was going to murder me wasn’t more attractive, and the last thing I would eat would be the crumbs falling from his beard. I violently twisted beneath his weight trying to throw him off me, and that’s when my service dog harnessed the spirited DNA of his badass wolf lineage! Fuck yeah poo bear!! Savin’ me and stuff!
My dog made a sound I had only heard him make once before, and that was when his best doggy pal tried to steal his peanut butter Kong while he was busy licking his wrinkled penny. Patrick “hipster” Bateman released his grip on my neck and moved away from me. He clearly recognized the growl as a precursor to 80 pounds of teeth and terror unleashing on his exposed pale ass.
Now, a wise person would have shoved this naked aggressor out into the hallway and locked the door behind him, tossing out only his t-shirt but no pants, as a final “fuck you.” Again, I am too nice. I realize my friends who know me well are reading this and rolling their eyes thinking “Bitch, please! When have you ever been concerned about niceties?” My fault is that I’m a people pleaser so I simply said “I think I’ve had enough” as I grabbed my wolf and headed for the panic room (aka the bathroom). I stood under the steamy hot shower trying to figure out what had just happened. Would he actually have harmed me had my half-dog/half-unicorn not intervened at a pivotal moment? Would a horn finally sprout from the middle of my dog’s head? What about wings…does he get wings too because all of my stuffed animal unicorns have them??
Most guys would have taken the hint and bounced while I was in the shower, stealing my laptop and wallet before vanishing if they had any brains. I finally emerged from the bathroom as pink as a rotisserie hotdog at a gas station. I expected an empty room but this turd was fast asleep IN MY FUCKING BED! I did exactly what I do in all undesirable situations that aren’t going my way. I took a couple of Xanax and escaped into a mental void.
I woke up a few hours into my slumber to bizarre sucking sounds coming from his word hole. I have no idea what he was dreaming about but it probably involved sucking virgin blood from a two-headed goat’s crusty nipple. Or maybe he was an algae eater cleaning a fish tank? Who fucking knows what creepers dream about when they’re not murdering in real life. I peeled myself off the bed and gave him the stink eye while I packed up my stuff, trying to be as loud and obnoxious as possible…maybe even running the zipper on my backpack up and down several times for sheer annoyance. And possibly twisting the ends of my phone charger around my fists to make an impromptu garrote.
That motherfucker didn’t even stir. He was a fuzzy growth of mold starfishing on my king-size!
I needed coffee and my dog needed a tinkle, so we headed outside in search of caffeine and a grassy patch. It physically hurt to swallow my drink…like strep throat hurt! My voice was hoarse and my neck had legit bruises like a victim from Law & Order: SVU. It was the middle of July in North Carolina. Turtlenecks and scarves were out so how was I going to explain my purple neck to friends and coworkers? Um, I clothes-lined myself playing beach volleyball?? Nah, they know I hate the sun and sand. And doing anything that makes me sweat.
By the time I arrived back to the room I was more pissed off than a fat kid in the salad bar line. Not only did he infringe upon my weekend of self-reflection but he tried to choke me out like I was Ted Bundy’s hooker. I grabbed a pillow (one of the firm ones!) and hit him over the head, telling him to wake up because he needed to get out of my room so I could check out. He mumbled something about “5 more minutes” as if I was his mother trying to wake him for first period. He dressed without saying much and together we rode the elevator down to where the valet was waiting with my car. I was expecting him to go the other way but he just hung out like a malignant tumor. And then he pulled one last final bit of bullshit on me! He wanted a ride home. I asked him if he even had a home, kind of making a joke, but not really.
Home ended up being 30 minutes out of my damn way and I was forced to make small talk with the shit stain who tried to conceivably kill me the preceding night. Nothing awkward about this situation at all. Perfectly normal to drive your assailant home the morning after.
I had a three-hour drive to contemplate my weekend, and the weekend before, and the last 6 months of my life.
I arrived at several conclusions in response to the poor decisions I had made:
- Don’t obnoxiously announce my New Year’s resolution to become a better person to the people who know me well. They’re well aware that I’m a complete shithead and tolerate me just the way I am…very emotional, often drunk, mouthy as fuck and sometimes promiscuous.
- Write down the names of the people I sleep with in my journal so I don’t have to actually recall the full experience to remember, or not remember. And shower in between just out of respect for guy #2.
- Don’t worry about what people are saying behind my back because it’s better than them saying it to my face, and then having to punch them. And always stick my finger in foam desserts when the opportunity presents itself.
- Don’t off myself over a ginger who poo-poo’d on my feelings. If I’m going to kill myself then at least do it for a worthy cause, like Damien Echols never responding to any of my letters I penned while he was in prison. I mean, fuck, he only had 18 damn years of doing nothing and he couldn’t write me back!? For shame!
- Don’t go to places like Asheville and expect to “find myself” or sort out my dirty laundry. Go to places like Asheville to devour delicious cuisine and imbibe fancy beer. If I need to find myself, then I’ll just take some acid and forget I was ever lost. And it will only set me back $10. Now that’s some affordable fucking healthcare!
- If someone tries to strangle me, twist wildly until a unicorn disguised as a Shepherd mix shows his teeth and emits a death roar. And if my attacker asks for a ride home the next day, then drive him in the opposite direction of home and dump him in a field miles from anything. Toss him the bottle of water that’s only got one inch of backwash floating in the bottom and has been marinating in my cup-holder for 3 days. And then squeal my tires as I drive off into the hellscape that is my life…