The Dissimulator, Part Five: The End of the Saga

Check Out Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four

At the end of the semester, Naïve Nancy and The Dissimulator were still dragging the good name of the engagement through the proverbial mud.

She was put on academic probation and went home to her family with her tail between her legs, having to admit, I’m sure, that they were right to be concerned about her venturing out of their home to go to college. She continued to see The Dissimulator for at least part of the summer. Eventually, they really broke up. He moved away, and she (finally) moved on.

But none of this happened before he’d convinced her that they were going to marry and move to Italy. Or before he told her that his father was a major figure in the Indian Mafia (?!?) and issued threats on her life should she decide to say or do anything he deemed inappropriate.

The Dissimulator contacted me twice during the next school year. He claimed to be engaged to a basketball player at some college or another and talked about how wonderful his life was. I choked back the rage that bubbled to the surface and the vomit that rose in my throat. I haven’t had contact with him since.

Naïve Nancy came to visit me a couple of times that year, and I went to several raves in dirty, dirty City Below the Sea with her and a friend.

She found me on myspace recently. She’s married now and has a beautiful new baby. The Dissimulator is a figure in her distant past.

I still tell people this long and true story from time to time when the setting is appropriate. I tell it because the things he lied about are so outrageous that they make for great telling. And I tell it because I learned a whole helluva lot more that year from my association with Naïve Nancy and The Dissimulator than I did from any of my classes.

The Misogynist and I discussed the story of The Dissimulator last night over drinks. I realized that a good portion of Nancy's sticking around probably had to do with her being/feeling indebted to The Dissimulator, since he paid for her first semester of school. It may have also had to do with her not wanting to be alone. (And, you know, that whole 'love' thing I hear so much about might've actually played into it just a bit.)

This whole experience is a large part of the reason I can’t handle lying. I realize that lies are often easier than the truth within the moment, but I don’t believe they're worth it in the end.

The Dissimulator, Part Four: Moving in on the Neighbors

Check out Part One, Part Two, and Part Three

This post is a jumble of events I can't quite place chronologically, all of which involve Ditsy and Dopey, the girls next door.

The Bowl Games

At some point while Naïve Nancy was still living in The Dissimulator's apartment, I got tired of him always being around my room while she was at work. I had papers to write and toenails to paint and, you know, just generally wanted Belle time. So, sometimes when he came over, I'd check him in but let him wander around our floor a bit. (Shhhhh! DO NOT tell the hall mother. She's a bitch.) He got familiar with Ditsy and Dopey, the girls next door to us, and often hung out in their room.

The Dissimulator had been talking about taking Naïve Nancy to the SuperBowl and to the (now-defunct) Aloha and/or Oahu Bowl since the first weekend I'd met him. She was all "foozball? Ick!" at first, but I convinced her that was just silly. Hey, said I, I’m not a fan either, but it's the SuperBowl! I mean, that's the game to see if you're going to go! And the other ones? Well, I don't know what the hell they are, but they're in Hawaii, Dipshit. Never say no to a free trip to Hawaii! And she was convinced, or at least she put up a good front.

I was chatting with Ditsy and Dopey one day when they mentioned that The Dissimulator had promised to take them to the SuperBowl. Oh? I asked, Did he promise to take you to some game in Hawaii, too? Their nodding heads affirmed. Yeah, I wouldn't so much count on that.When I told Nancy, she wasn't thrilled, but she wasn't particularly crushed, considering her lack of interest in the sport.

Ditsy and Dopey, of course, did not go to Hawaii or to the SuperBowl with The Dissimulator. The Dissimulator, of course, stopped mentioning these games in the weeks leading up to them. I'm sure he was conveniently called away for "family business" or some such nonsense on the relevant days.

Breakin' Up and Makin' Up

Naïve Nancy answered the phone early one spring Saturday morning. It was The Dissimulator. Unhappy with whatever he was saying, she began whining into the phone. All my empathy and sympathy having been drained at this point, I shoved my head under my pillow and kicked about grumpily until she got the hint that she was disturbing me and left the room.

When she reentered the room, she was sobbing. The Dissimulator had broken up with her. Wait, this is new, I thought. I got up, shook myself to a higher level of alertness, and began trying to comfort her. Although I really did not like to see her hurt, I thought this was best. She needed to be rid of him.

Intending to step down the hall and wet a washcloth for her face, I opened the door to our room. Ditsy and Dopey, carrying overnight bags, passed by just as I did and looked in at the disheveled and obviously upset Nancy. They stopped and asked about her. I glanced back at Nancy for the go-ahead and told them of the morning's phone call.

Ditsy: I hope this isn't because of us.
Belle: Why would it be because of you?
(Ditsy and Dopey exchange looks.)
Dopey: Because we're going to City Below the Sea with The Dissimulator today.
Naïve Nancy: (Suddenly alert) What?!? (Bursts into fresh set of sobs)
Ditsy: We thought you knew...
Belle: No... obviously (Gestures toward Nancy)
Dopey: I didn't know he was going to do that. Nothing's going on with us...
Ditsy: Yeah! Nothing's going on... We're just friends...
(Nancy sobs louder)
Belle: Sure. Look, I need to take care of her.

Ditsy and Dopey didn't change their plans. I spent the weekend doing my best to console Nancy. I let her talk about all the things that were wrong with their relationship. Having not yet learned that it's rarely ever okay to trash your girlfriend's (recent) ex, I probably put my 2 cents in more often than advisable. She vowed she'd never date him again. I did a little dance in my head.

Ditsy and Dopey slinked into the dorm and past our open door two days later without a word. The Dissimulator called within the hour. Naïve Nancy took him back before the night was over. I kicked myself for having been gullible enough to do a mental dance of glee.

Breakin' Up and Makin' Up, Take Two

That whole scenario above? Rinse and repeat. Same actors. Same plot. Same execution (minus the dialog, as Ditsy and Dopey had little to say to Nancy or Belle, and vice versa, after the first trip to City Below the Sea). Naïve Nancy took The Dissimulator back again. Having learned from my previous mistake of premature celebration, I just shook my head at the whole situation.

Ditsy and Dopey might not have been as stupid as their names imply. Very much like Naïve Nancy, they let The Dissimulator try to woo them in the only way he seemed to know how… by throwing his "money" around. Unlike Naïve Nancy, they didn’t seem to get emotionally involved, and they definitely didn’t stick around when the favors started to slow. If you’re going to deal with one, that’s the way you should work a manipulative asshole like The Dissimulator.

I have to admit, my respect for these girls is newfound. It was pretty much hell living next to them for the remainder of the semester. I found their behavior despicable at the time. Naïve Nancy was busy fighting with and fucking The Dissimulator most of the time. Meanwhile, my somewhat misplaced loyalty landed me in a near-daily battle against two fairly fierce girls.

Stay tuned for Part Five.

The Dissimulator, Part Three: The Money & The Illness

Check Out Part One and Part Two

That semester, Naïve Nancy's tuition never got paid. The Dissimulator was supposed to be taking care of all that, remember? He didn’t take her to get her books until the third or fourth week of school. Ultimately, she failed almost all her classes.

So the financial aid office was on her back about the tuition and dorm fees. Then there was the matter of the unpaid credit card bill. One day before the winter break, Nancy was leaving early for work so she could stop by a local department store and pay a credit card bill on her way in. She had a check written out and in her hand. The Dissimulator stopped her and took the check from her. "I'll pay it for you," he'd said.*

Thinking her boyfriend fiancé would do as he'd said, Naïve Nancy put the whole matter out of mind until she got a call from the company one day, telling her the bill was long overdue and asking for a payment. The Dissimulator feigned outrage, telling her he'd paid them himself and that he would take care of it the very next day.

You can imagine how this went on. The company calling and sending letters. Nancy, by this point out of a job and out of money, hoping and trusting that her boyfriend fiancé would take care of it all. The Dissimulator doing anything but that.

Eventually, the company turned her over to a collection agency. The Dissimulator was still spewing his game and promising to take care of everything. Naïve Nancy was still trusting him. After they couldn't collect, they threatened to bring charges and have her arrested.

Meanwhile, The Dissimulator was suddenly without cash alarmingly often. It seemed he'd nearly always just transferred a large amount of money from one account to another, but it hadn't posted yet, or some such likely story. Nancy was charging up her MasterCard at every turn. The Dissimulator was promising he'd take care of the bills.

Nancy and I were on friendly enough terms at this point, but it's hard to say we were anything more than cordial. I thought she was an idiot for staying with someone who was obviously a pathological liar. I tried to reason with her (leaving out the bit about her being an idiot, of course), but that just made her pull back from me even more.

The Dissimulator had Naïve Nancy in a great situation for his purposes, though. During the winter break, he'd supposedly gone to the doctor and been diagnosed with liver cancer. She didn't feel she could complain about his habit of spending on her dime because he could die in less than a year. This was the man she was going to marry. And he was going to die.

I asked her questions to get her thinking again and again. Have you been to the doctor with him? No? Why won't he let you go? You're going to marry him, right? Don't you have a right to know what's going on with him? To support him through this? ... Why did he cancel the appointment after he said you could go?... Why did he tell you he canceled the appointment only to go anyway by himself? Doesn't that seem a little suspicious to you?

In retrospect, I wonder why I didn't haul my ass down to the library (or the monitor, whatever) and do some research to help her see his lies for what they were. I think at that point I'd pretty much washed my hands of the matter, convinced she was a moron who would follow him through anything and wondering to my (virginal) self, is (the) sex really that good?

As all these tensions mounted, the thought of a long-promised, long-anticipated cruise with The Dissimulator during spring break gave Nancy pleasant dreams of respite. Those dreams were dashed when, conveniently enough, The Dissimulator found out the day spring break started that he would have to fly (alone) to Chicago for surgery.

I, of course, was already en route for the-most-awesomely-tiresome-spring-break-road-trip-ever when all this happened and (amazingly enough) didn't even have a cell phone. I didn't hear about Naïve Nancy’s non-break until my return. And it made me furious. I just couldn't contain myself. I imagine I laughed or snorted when she told me. I'm certain my face displayed the mixture of disgust and rage and pity I felt at the moment. I started with the questions again. Why didn't he know before? Where is he now? What kind of surgery would allow him to fly back here already? They did what? He says they used a laser to eradicate the cancer... through his belly button?!? Is there even a scar? WHY ARE YOU BELIEVING THIS?

To no avail. My questioning her achieved squat.

Stay Tuned for Part Four: Moving in on the Neighbors

* I was a first-hand witness to the beginning of this story.

The Dissimulator, Part Two: Dirty Warfare is His Second Nature

Check Out Part One: An Introduction
A few months into their relationship, The Dissimulator bought Nancy an "engagement" ring.* One day, she took it off at their apartment and set it on the coffee table. When she looked for it a short while later, it was gone. She and her beau were the only two in the house. The ring was never seen again. The Dissimulator later blamed a repairman sent by the management company for stealing the ring. He, of course, never lodged a complaint or asked the company to investigate.

As Christmas and finals neared, I wondered (loudly and often, in the general direction of Naïve Nancy) why we never saw The Dissimulator do any work for the online classes in which he claimed he was enrolled. Naïve Nancy, arguably unconcerned with her own studies, ignored me and busied herself making a wish list at Victoria's Secret. The Dissimulator told her he'd ordered everything on it.

When the three of us exchanged gifts, I left with an armload of booty from the two of them. In the end, Nancy got a whopping three presents from The Dissimulator, none of which were from her wish list (and none of which were thoughtful, useful, cool, funny, or any of the other things that make gifts good). "The management office wouldn't accept the packages. We'll have to go to Crap City to pick them up." Never happened. (He, by the way, got several really nice and thoughtful gifts from Nancy. And I got several nice and thoughtful gifts from him.)

When I returned from a long, torturous winter break at the Southern Homestead, I found an entirely changed scene. Naïve Nancy had lost her job and officially moved back into our dorm room (which really cramped my style after months of solo-living). The Dissimulator had given up his off-campus apartment to move into a dorm and start taking classes at our esteemed institute of higher learning. Odd, I remember thinking (and saying, many times). Didn't The Dissimulator say he's been in college for two years? Only freshmen are required to live on campus. Why would he give up an apartment to live in a crappy dorm?

My theories were twofold. 1.) He'd never been to college (or was still classified as a freshman) and had to live in the dorm to attend classes. 2.) He was really, really sick of playing house with Naïve Nancy.

By the spring semester, I'd managed to forge a few more friendships, to diversify my platonic relationship portfolio, if you will. It was a good damn thing, too. The Dissimulator and Naïve Nancy were having relationship problems all over the place. She'd become incredibly needy, and he'd become suddenly aloof. Emotional matters, financial matters, physical matters... everything was causing problems. I needed S P A C E.

With space came a little perspective, I suppose. The Dissimulator and I had a huge falling out. I don't remember the catalyst of the argument, but I do think I had more than a little to do with starting it. Naïve Nancy just sat and watched the two of us hurl various forms of verbal assault at one another with all the force we could muster. I called The Dissimulator out about his little habit of spewing forth lies whenever he opened his mouth. That did it; he was about to launch missile one, aimed at destroying my friendship with Nancy.

"You said Nancy was immature!" The Dissimulator shouted, pointing his chubby finger at me.

In a sense, he was telling the truth. A short while after Nancy had moved back into the dorm, our phone had rung in the middle of the night. I’d answered. It was The Dissimulator. He was in the parking lot, and he was upset. Would I please come talk to him? Still groggy, I'd gone to meet him. We'd talked for a bit, and he'd asked my opinion of his relationship with Nancy, telling me his friends thought she wasn't right for him. As delicately as I could, I told him I thought the pair was a bit immature to handle the sort of relationship they were pursuing.

I looked over at my shell-shocked roommate. Nancy, I'll talk to you about that later. Right now, I need to deal with him.

And I did talk to her later. I told her what I'd said to him. It was how I felt, and it wasn't intentionally mean or hurtful, but I’m sure it was hurtful nonetheless. Most importantly, though, it was the truth, something all of us needed a whole lot more of at the time. But the Dissimulator’s attack was well-aimed; my relationship with Nancy was never the same.

After our fight, The Dissimulator and I were pretty much sworn enemies, but I hadn't seen the worst of what he had to offer.

Several weeks later, I returned from class one morning to find a sobbing message from The Moms on the machine. "Belle," *sob* *sob* "Call me as soon as you get this." *sob* Click.

Panic set in. Someone was dead. I just knew it. Younger Brother? Older Brother? Who could it be? I dialed shakily and nearly burst into tears when I heard The Moms' first sob. What is it? Who's hurt? What's wrong?

The Moms finally managed to gasp out that she'd gotten a letter. It was from someone who claimed to live in my dorm but who remained anonymous because "she" was speaking for many girls. They were worried about me, the letter claimed. I was an alcoholic. I was skipping classes all the time and in danger of flunking out of school. I was threatening murder and suicide. I had gotten a reputation as a slut. I *gasp* dated black boys. To prove how right they were about all they said, they'd printed out a few select passages from my livejournal account, which detailed, among other things, getting drunk at a party and a date with a sweet, funny, intelligent, gorgeous guy who also happened to be black.

Already firming up my belief that the truth is best, even when it is more painful, I reassured my mother that the things she'd read were not true. The Moms, I drink sometimes, but I'm not an alcoholic. I can't remember the last time I drank. The same bottle of Boone’s** has been sitting in my fridge for two weeks unopened. I do not drink every day. I am not failing classes. I have A's or B's in everything, just like high school. I do occasionally miss my 9 o'clock class, but there's no attendance policy and the lecture notes are online. Who can digest philosophy at 9 a.m. anyway? I'm not suicidal, nor am I full of homicidal rage. I am still a virgin. Hardly anyone on this campus even knows who I am; I have no reputation. Okay, I have gone out with a really nice guy a few times. He is black.... The Moms?.... The Moms?... The Moms!.... Yeah, I know. I'm glad they sent you the letter and not Dad.... Yeah, I know better than to tell him. .... Yeah, the brothers either. ... Are you okay now? I promise I'm fine.... Hey, The Moms? Can you send me that letter?

It wasn't the worst thing he could've done, but it definitely seemed horrible at the time. He nearly gave The Moms a heart attack, which wasn't nice at all. But I was smart enough to know I'd gotten off light. If the address listed in the student directory had been that of my father, that letter would have assuredly led to my being shunned by a good portion of my wonderful family.*** It might have led to violence on the part of my hot-headed brothers.

The ironic part of all this, which I can only laugh about now, is that The Dissimulator was Indian, and Naïve Nancy's (Caucasian) parents were as incredibly bigoted as my father and brothers. As a result, they didn't even know he existed, and if she'd had her way, they never would have.

I could never prove he sent the letter, but Naïve Nancy told me years later that she believed, looking back, it was him.

Stay Tuned for Part Three: The Money & The Illness

* The ring was a cluster of sapphires and small diamonds. As far as I know, it was not accompanied by a proposal. While I’m all about shirking tradition and doing things your own way, it never seemed like a real engagement to me.
** Yeah, I said Boone’s! That’s barely even alcohol!
*** There are many good damn reasons I left the Southern Homestead and surrounding areas. Sadly, the family accounts for the vast majority of them.

The Dissimulator, Part One: An Introduction

When I struck out for my freshman year of college, I knew exactly one person who would attend the same university. Being that (1) he was male, (2) freshmen were required to live in dorms, and (3) we went to school in the Bible Belt, there wasn't an option of making a go as roomies our first year.

My former boss and self-described Adoptive Mom* made the trek with me from the Southern Homestead to The Black Hole. We spent much of the six-hour ride guessing what my roommate would be like based on the only bit of personal information I'd been given, her name.

We came up with a ton of life stories for the girl (most of them clichés, I admit). One minute she was pearl-wearing Daddy’s girl who would remain sweet and charming until exactly the moment her parents' taillights disappeared, then morph into a slutty, alcoholic bitch. The next she was a recluse who never uttered more than a few monosyllables and listened to nothing but death metal and polka. She had a Mohawk, tons of piercings, and tattoos. She was a suck-up who would follow me around campus and offer to write all my papers. She already had two kids and was going to try to keep them in the dorm with us. She only ate garlic and raw onions. She was a bully and a thief. She insisted on wearing only pink and decorating everything with sequins and glitter.

Naïve Nancy turned out to be none of those things, thankfully. As people go, she was pretty decent, if a little annoying and somewhat dense at times. Her judgment needed a bit of honing, but whose doesn't at 18? Mine certainly did (and, arguably, still does). I can't say we immediately hit it off, but we did become pretty good friends fairly quickly.

But this story isn't completely about Naïve Nancy. It's mainly about her lovely boyfriend, The Dissimulator.**

First, a little back story:*** Naïve Nancy met The Dissimulator the summer before she left for school. Her parents, feeling that she wasn't ready to leave home,**** didn't support her desire to attend our fine, fine university. They would have preferred that she live at home and attend a community college.

Naïve Nancy’s BFF at the time, Sickly Sugar, convinced Naïve Nancy she had to come with her. Then she made it her mission to convince The Dissimulator he had to help Naïve Nancy with tuition and books and furnishing and stocking her dorm room, etc. and whatnot. The Dissimulator agreed to do those things.

At the time, he and Naïve Nancy were not actually dating. Sometime during the three-hour drive from their town to our dorm, he'd pretty much changed their status from "up-the-air" to "exclusive." (Really, it was more like "haven't yet kissed" to "gettin' laid tonight!" I suppose throwing down a lot of cash can do that for some people.)

Enter Belle: The Dissimulator was a charismatic guy. We became friends more easily than Naïve Nancy and I formed any kind of bond. It wasn't too long before Sickly Sugar found the walk from her dorm to ours too much effort, and their friendship was downgraded, which gave the friendship between Nancy and me just the kick in the ass it needed to blossom.

The Dissimulator started the fall semester by coming to visit Nancy every weekend and sometimes during the week. The three of us usually hung out until he had to leave the dorm at curfew, then they'd go to some hotel in town. Several weeks of this routine apparently wore him out. He rented an apartment and moved to The Black Hole. Naïve Nancy unofficially moved out of the dorm and into his place.

Long before the move, though, I'd noticed something fishy about The Dissimulator. He had this habit of talking about money. Specifically, how he had so much of it. Odd, I remember thinking. Don't the people who actually have money also have the good sense to keep their traps shut about it?

I'd been to his parent's home. While the structure was nice and on a fairly grand scale, the place was ill-decorated and unkempt. Who lives in a plantation-style "mansion" and hangs family portraits in plastic frames from the dollar store? Why are there no carpets in the house? Don't rich people always have fancy ancient carpets? And antiques? Where's the furniture that doesn't look like it came in a box that said “Assembly Required”? And why has The Dissimulator been driving around this dumpy Impala for weeks? Didn’t he say his Maxima just needed some repairs? What the hell gives?

Nevertheless, I remained friends The Dissimulator. Nancy had taken a job in a town about 20 miles away that kept her out late four nights a week. Being that The Dissimulator wasn't a student and wasn't working and spent all his time with Nancy and me, he had no other friends in town. Being that I'd skipped all the "go-on-ahead-and-make-yourself-some-friends-now-darlin'" gatherings, didn't have a fake ID, rarely spoke to classmates, and spent most of my free time with Nancy and The Dissimulator, I had only a handful of acquaintances. When Nancy was at work, The Dissimulator and I spent a great deal of time hanging out with one another.*****

Even still, I tried to tell Naïve Nancy when I started to see things were legitimately amiss with the guy. One day, The Dissimulator told Nancy he'd purchased a purple iMac for her. He claimed it would arrive in two weeks. It never did. After some serious prompting from yours truly, Naïve Nancy inquired about the MIA iMac. Each time, she received some excuse ("Back ordered." “Still backordered.” "Apparently purple is really popular." "The driver dropped it at the wrong address." and on and on), until she finally gave up and dropped the subject entirely.

Even though I thought his buying her a computer was a bit excessive, I found the blatant lie about doing so outrageous. It wasn't even a good lie. It's not like you'd really pay for a computer but not care that it was never delivered and just give up on it. I mean, you're destined to be found out in that situation. Who would lie about something like that? Who would stay with someone who lied about something like that?

But, I was guilty, too. I didn't run from these crazy people and their crazy ways. Apparently, I had a lesson to learn.

Stay Tuned for Part Two: Dirty Warfare is His Second Nature

* When a person you've only known for two years is more willing to see you off to college than your own parents, who've ostensibly known you your entire life, that person has every right to claim such a title. In fact, the "adoptive" part was dropped soon thereafter. She's been known as Mom since, but that’s too confusing for the blog. [Up]
** Since Pathologically Lying Manipulative Asshole Con Man Fucking Compulsively Lying Liar Guy is incredibly long, I opted for the slightly less burdensome moniker. [Up]
*** This is information to which I was not privy until much later in the game. [Up]
**** By the end of the year, I was in total agreement with her parents in this respect. [Up]
***** Eventually, there were rumors that The Dissimulator and I had something going on. I assure you, we never even flirted with the idea of flirting with one another, much less taking things further. [Up]

Attention: Your reward has officially been revoked

…Continued (from The Fight)

Okay, so I’d invited NRA Guy over for dinner the day after 'The Fight.’ He agreed immediately, then kinda-sorta tried to back out, then (correctly) figured out he’d better come or he’d be in more trouble. Then kinda-sorta left himself an 'out' window.

I spent most of the day wondering if he was going to blow me off and not liking the thought of it. (And realizing that my uneasy feeling probably indicated more feelings for him than I really wanted to admit.)

Anyway, he ended up showing up, and the Roommate’s boy toy came as well.

There was much ragging of NRA Guy throughout the meal, and much consumption of wine on the part of Belle throughout the evening. Due not in small part to his pouting about the teasing from all sides, I started to feel guilty about what he called “being mean” and ended up apologizing for a few little things and trying to reassure him that he was in decent standing. (This is relevant mainly because I later felt irate that he'd let me apologize at any point during this whole thing for anything, knowing what he knew already and what I'd find out soon enough.)

I asked him to sleep over, and, despite some initial hesitance, he agreed. Not long after we went to bed, he said he had something to tell me. Something that was going to upset me. (He really needs to work on leading into these kinds of things.)

The big, hoppin’ New Year’s Eve party he threw for 30-something of his closest friends and their friends? Yeah, that out-of-town shindig to which I wasn’t invited? Yeah, it wasn’t so much out of town as it was right here, in Our Nation’s Capital.

This little bit of information did not lead (amazingly, stupidly) to me kicking his lying ass out of my bed and out of my house. Nope, not so much.

We talked. I cried. I told him how shitty it made me feel that he just didn’t want me to be there when we were in the same fucking city. That compounded by the big fucking unnecessary lie… it made me sick. He said it was Best Buddy’s idea. Supposedly, Best Buddy said it’d lessen the blow of not inviting me if I didn’t know the party was going on in our backyard. If Best Buddy actually said this (We already know NRA’s the confirmed liar here. Why should I trust his claim?), he was right. When I thought the thing was out of town and had no idea there were lies involved, I wasn’t so much hurt as pissed about him not calling. I’m much better at dealing with pissed than I am at dealing with hurt. I can get pissed off at nearly anyone. (That little old lady with the walker taking up the usable portions of a narrow sidewalk on a busy street? Yeah, I occasionally get the urge to take her walker to her GTA-style.) But to hurt me? To hurt me means you matter in some way. To make me cry? You’ve joined the ranks of a slim, noteworthy few, NRA. And it isn’t at all a good thing.

NRA said the different location didn’t change anything. I said it changed everything. In D.C., I wouldn’t have been captive and dependent on him. If things went shitty, I could’ve vamped. I have options in D.C. that I wouldn’t have had out of town.

He said his last New Year’s went horribly wrong and blah, blah, blah. I said mine didn’t shape up so fucking hot this year, thanks to him, now did it?

And let’s not forget that the main issue here is the BIG FUCKING UNNECESSARY LIE he told.

I cried some more. I felt like shit. I did my best to make him feel like shit. He said he felt like shit. He said he was sorry about 217 times. I told him he’d have to make up for this somehow, and saying he was sorry wasn’t at all even remotely going to put a dent in the debt he’d incurred.

The waterworks dried up for a bit then opened right back up full-force when I started addressing my issues with trusting people in general. And how I have trouble doing it in the first place and then always seem to trust the wrong ones. (Exhibit A: NRA Guy)

Being way more sad than angry, it made me all the more painfully aware that this guy has only very recently succeeded in actually making me admit, even to myself, that I like him and has already gone and broken the sacred trust. I told him it was impossible for him to be trying for a relationship if he’s going to lie to me.

Then, somehow (and, oh, here is where I wish I had about two fewer glasses of wine and could remember exactly how this went down) we had the DTR. And the outcome of that conversation ended up being that he was calling me his girlfriend, and I was letting him.*

Things weren’t great, but I was really thinking all that time that I wasn’t ready for him to go just yet. When we went to sleep, I actually slept. It could’ve been the wine. It could’ve been that we were in my bed, but it’s not often I’ve encountered a guy I can comfortably sleep through the night with.

I woke up with a massive wine-induced headache and puffy eyes and a sorry-assed, lying boyfriend in my bed. As the day progressed and the remnants of my hangover disappeared, I analyzed the whole situation with a somewhat fuzzy but sober brain, consulted everyone available for consultation, and became completely aware that agreeing to be his girlfriend was a horrible idea no matter how you look at it.

I rewarded him for terrible behavior, and I ended up feeling like a complete schmuck. And rightly so. I am a complete schmuck. (Everyone say it together now…)

Anyhow, I took my frazzled, unhappy ass home and put it in bed right after work. NRA called and woke me about an hour later. I took the opportunity to end what perhaps might qualify as one of the shortest relationships of all time (We’re talking somewhere around 15 hours here, people. anyone know the Guiness record on this?).

Belle: I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be your girlfriend.
NRA: (pause) Okay.
Belle: You don't sound happy.
NRA: What did you expect me to do, jump for joy?
Belle: No... Do you want to know why I don’t think it’s a good idea?
NRA: Yes, I want to know why.
Belle: Because if I’m going to call you my boyfriend, I have to be able to trust you.
NRA: (sounding surprised) You don’t trust me?!

WTF?! As if he’s given me any reason whatsoever to trust him. Is there an alternate universe in which telling someone a huge fucking unnecessary lie elicits implicit trust?

Anyhow, he asked that I come over later. I declined the invitation. He had nothing planned, and he’s got making up to do. He doesn’t get the honor of my company for a less-than-thrilling night of channel surfing, watching him clean, and denying his requests for my services (which could be a post by itself, but I’m not in the mood to branch to that topic). He’s going to have to work to get back in my good graces. All that sweet, snazzy stuff he did at the beginning when he was trying to woo me away from other guys? Yeah, he better up the ante by about 1,000 percent.

After declining, I asked when we were going to see one another again. He started mumbling about the girl coming in tomorrow and everything depending on her arrival, etc. The rest of the weekend wasn’t mentioned. Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it, game on. Sounds to me like he’s working under one of two assumptions. One, he thinks that he can blow me off while she’s here and pick things up again when she’s gone (which was Fabric Softener Boy’s suggestion for him wanting so badly that I agree to be his girlfriend). Or, two, he thinks that I’m going to be available and willing to be squeezed in the cracks when his plans with other people allow. Neither is the case, whether he realizes it or not. I made sure to book the weekend solid after I finished my nap.

He sent me inane text messages several times later in the night rather than calling me back after ending our conversation. I responded to a couple, but then bored of it. Did I really want to hear about how lazy he was feeling? Obviously, no.

NRA Guy’s mission, should he desire to have a shot at getting back in Belle’s good graces, reaches well beyond doing damage control or kissing ass. He’s going to have to repair broken trust. And good luck to him. This Capricorn really doesn’t like to be crossed by the people she lets in her life.

* Earlier in the night, when talking about plans for my upcoming birthday, he said if the Bears and the whats-its do something or other with a ball, his dad was supposed to get him tickets to a game in Chicago on birthday weekend. He said he told his dad to get a ticket for me. Before the revelation, I told him we’d deal with his potential breaking of the birthday plans when and if it came to that. After the DTR, though, and in my first official act as his girlfriend, I told him he had no choice but to spend my birthday with me. I also laid out as many other rules/laws/mandates as I could think up on the spot. The next morning, I was perhaps still a little tipsy when I remembered this, but I have to admit being somewhat excited about having the upper hand going into this.

The Fight: NRA Guy might have all the guns, but I'm holding the ammo

So NRA Guy called the other night, and, through a short series of random little innocent mini-topics, he picked up on my unhappiness with him. He wanted to talk about it on the phone, but I told him I’d rather come over (so as to avoid the possibility of anything getting blown out of proportion).

How about I break down the conversation about New Year’s for you?

- Some of his friends apparently bitched him out all the way to their destination because he hadn’t invited me. (Yay for these friends I haven’t even met!)

- He knew I was upset when we talked New Year's Day, so he got off the phone as quickly as possible. (Boo.)

- I mainly focused on my displeasure that he didn’t call. I laid out my argument that we’d been together or in contact daily for the past couple weeks (mostly his doing), and this sudden change in behavior on New Year’s was not something that made me happy.

- After much demanding on my part, he countered that I was the one dating other people and who had kept him at a distance.

- I counter-countered(??) that he knew I was no longer seeing anyone else and that the daily face and/or phone time meant, basically, “What distance?”

- He said he didn’t think he was ready for me to see him at his craziest and drunkest with all his friends.

- I concurred that I probably wasn’t.

- I agreed that, although I was slightly affected by the lack of invitation, I was more inclined to think that the setting wasn’t right for me to meet all his friends and see him at his drunkest and him see me at my drunkest (and to be captive there and dependent on him for a ride home, which, actually, I didn’t mention but which definitely factor into the equation).

- Best Buddy (the one I met) apparently ran interference all night. Any time NRA talked to a girl, Best Buddy came up to say, “You know NRA has a girlfriend now, don’t you?” (Yay, Best Buddy! … Even though I take issue with the ‘girlfriend’ label without having the DTR, this pleased me.)

- He apologized for not calling, eventually, after a great deal of offering lame non-excuses and much insisting that I couldn’t be “that mad,” since I’m not his girlfriend.

- I let him know that I considered myself “appropriately miffed” at the situation. I came to his house to talk about it; he would’ve had to track me down to ever talk to me again if I was his girlfriend and he blew me off on New Year’s Eve. I wasn’t yelling or being irrational or mean or accusatory; although he kept saying, “Nothing happened, I promise,” I repeatedly informed him that I wasn’t concerned that he’d been with another woman.

And, finally, after I felt we’d talked through it all enough and he’d groveled enough, I told him I accepted his apology and that he needn’t keep telling me he was sorry. We dropped it, moved on, and got comfortably cuddly.

And that, friends, is what led to the actual fight.

The short version is that his knee was obviously hurt, and when I asked him about it, he denied anything was wrong. Repeatedly. For an extended period of time. When he finally admitted the knee was hurt, I was reminded that he “can’t remember” what he told Best Buddy regarding how we met. I told him that if he lies to Best Buddy, I have to assume he’ll lie to anyone. This is a guy he talks to four or five times a day. They know damn-near everything about one another. But NRA lies to him about how we met? What’s to say he isn’t lying to me about things?

NRA was very quiet during all of this bitching on my part. He refused to offer anything to this portion of the conversation. He just kept trying every once in a while to distract me in some way. Finally he said he wouldn’t lie to me. That he doesn’t lie to me. I was too exhausted to keep it up at that point, so I let it go, telling him not to fucking lie to me. Ever. I hate lies.

We left on decent, if somewhat tense, terms. I invited him to dinner the next night, partially because the Roommate suggested it and partially because I felt bad for bitching him out all night.

Yeah, that’s right, I felt bad. I’m a freakin’ sap, apparently*.

To be continued…

* If you don’t agree that I'm a sap at this point, you will after the next entry. Of that, you can be certain.