I feel good.  Really, really good.  I’ve expunged that horrid episode and she has served her purpose.  Entertaining my loyal readers.  How did it end?  Well, if you must know, it went a little something like this:

Int. Work – My Office – morning

I dutifully sit typing at my desk when an IM pops up.  It’s from my BFF.

Hey, Deluded just messaged me on Facebook.  She wants to know what’s wrong with you.  What should I tell her?

Whatever the hell you want.  I’m done.

How about I gently suggest that you guys aren’t meant to be and perhaps she should change her ticket and go home early?

That sounds perfect.

I continue working.  Another IM pops up.  It’s Deluded.

Why are you mad at me?

I ignore it.

Maybe I should just go home early.

I think that’s a good idea.

I go to lunch, whistling in my head.  I can’t really whistle, not sure why.  I return to my office a bit later.  Another IM pops up.

She wants to know why you’re upset and that I should know and she really wants to know so that she can make it all better.  She has no idea what she did wrong.  She’s been a great house guest.  She cleans up after herself, she bought you wine, beer, chocolate, flowers, candles, made dinner…what else could she possibly do to make you happy?

She’s psychotic.


I go back to my work.  Moments pass and then, another IM.

So what should I tell her?

Tell her to try not to OD in my apartment.  I don’t want to be responsible for her remains.  There’s a lake in the center of my complex.  Chances are they wouldn’t make it back to Chicago.

I’ll encourage her to change her ticket.  Again.  And now she wants to know why you don’t communicate.

I don’t speak crazy.

I continue working.  Beep Beep.

Why won’t you talk to me?  I’m going to change my flight.


Twenty minutes later…

It’s going to cost me $300 to change my ticket.  I can’t do it.  Plus my original ticket cost me $200.  That’s $700.  I can’t afford it.

(to self)
Damn.  Wait, did she just say 300 + 200 = 700?  Whatever, I don’t give a damn if she can’t add.
(to her)

Why won’t you tell me why you’re mad at me?  I don’t understand.  I’ve been a good house guest.

By the time I got to my door, I knew what a husband coming home late from work must feel like.  Defeated.  Nervous.  Anxious.  Pissed.  A lil’ scared.  What if she’s wielding an axe, or scissors at me?  There could be a big ass Jamaican inside ready to rob me and club me upside the head and use it as a bong.  I was wrong.  It was just her.  I was kind of hoping for the Jamaican.

She asks me dead away why I was mad at her.  As if I were a witness on the stand, I admonished:

  • you’re a drug addict
  • you have a drinking problem
  • your mood swings are a little too erratic for my taste
  • you have no business trying to be in a relationship
  • this trip was an attempt at taking a chance I wouldn’t normally have taken and I’ll be the first to admit that I was wrong
  • you never should have come here


She told me that for a grown woman I don’t know how to communicate.  Her friends told her that she was making a mistake and she was right that first night, wasn’t she?  Yes.  Congratulations, you were right.  You could tell that it wasn’t meant to be because I didn’t jump your bones that first night, politely waiting for the second night like a lady…point for you.

It’s a shame that a woman your age doesn’t know how to communicate.

There we go with my age again.  And I felt it proper to leave out the vaginal infection and the toy abuse endured during her visit.  I didn’t have the energy to get into it since I had a fear that she just wouldn’t understand why it was wrong.

You just leave people hanging.

I don’t leave people hanging.  I just left you hanging.

Silence.  Moments pass as we both absorb ourselves in cyberspace.  But I do take casual notice of a few things.

  1. She’s a bit tipsy.
  2. Her luggage is packed.
  3. She’s wearing clothes.  Her hair is done and she’s got a full face of make-up on.
  4. She winds up crying in the bathroom.  The problem was that I didn’t feel the least bit bad.  Eh, maybe a little.

She announces that she can take a Greyhound bus back home.  It leaves at 7:30 p.m.  It was 6:40 p.m.  There was no way we’d make it over there, as tempting as it was.  And it was across the street from Magic City – yes, the world famous strip club, Magic City.  I’ve been there once and it was fun, but I wasn’t in the mood to get frisked or possibly jumped trying to get rid of her ass.  Her next announcement was another bus leaving at 11:32 p.m.  That I could do!  She asked if a taxi would come all the way out to my place to pick her up.  I wanted to slap her, but I didn’t.  Once again, I live literally 10-15 minutes from Atlanta proper, if that.  And my city is nothing to sneeze at, either, having formerly been Atlanta until its incorporation just a few years prior.  She was determined to remain an idiot, so be it.  I recommended a taxi service and she booked an online pickup.  While she waited, another full glass of wine was poured.  I took note that the 1.5 L bottle just purchased the night before, was over 2/3 gone.  I was impressed she was still standing since I know she took her pills, too.  We mustn’t forget the pills.

She decided to go for one of her ‘walks.’  While she was gone, I considered packing up the used toys as a going away present.  I decided I cared too much about their welfare to subject them to that abuse.  They deserved a proper burial.  And, you guessed it, she came back high and told me how she calmed these two Rottweilers.  She’s always had a way with wild animals, like a dog whisperer.  Of course she did.  She checked on the cab, unsure if the reservation was confirmed.  She called.  From her computer.  They didn’t have it on record.  What’s the address?  What time?  Is there a gate?  Yes.  What number do they call?  I told her to give them my number because they had to and she waved me off.  How else are they going to get through the gate?  She reluctantly gave it to them.  When he finally arrived, a tremendous weight was lifted off of my shoulders.  And then I patiently waited for her to pour yet another full glass of wine, topping it off to be exact, and chugging it like it was an Irish Car Bomb.  She sloshed it everywhere: when she poured it and again trying to drink it all.  She was one of the most disgusting beings I’d ever had the displeasure of knowing.  Even this briefly.  She left, almost falling down the stairs lugging her suitcase.  Good riddance.  In her wake, I took inventory of the damage:

  • make-up stain on my white, plush towel
  • red stain on white bathroom counter top (I keep my makeup decoratively displayed in glass jars and vases with a red rose intertwined throughout.  I’ve kept it that way for years, never getting a drop of water on any of it.  Apparently, when she ‘washed’ her face, she doused herself with water much like a Neutrogena commercial.  That explains why there was makeup on my white towel.  Splashing isn’t really cleaning.)  Bleach didn’t even get it out.
  • ripped sheets with that jagged big toe nail.  I discovered it much later after washing and sanitizing my sheets and mattress.  It was a clean slice at the foot of the bed.  SMH.
  • it took me days to get that hooker Fendi scent out of my apartment
  • had to clean and sanitize both my sofa and dining chair
  • spilled wine all over my dining table, kitchen floor, kitchen counter tops, ALL OVER THE FRIDGE – including jars of food.  everything was stuck to the shelves.  the wine bottle had smudge all over it with her fingerprints.  after spending a good 1/2 hour cleaning the fridge, I deduced that it must have been a mixture of wine and pickle juice. (I love sweet pickles!)  I had to pry stuff up and clean everything.  What the hell, right?

But she couldn’t have left without the final word.  I received an email that night – she was staying at a hotel to enjoy the fine Southern hospitality my city has to offer.  Whatever.

About a week later, my sister decided to search for her to see what she may or may not have been saying about her experience in Atlanta.  Like the twit Deluded is, Twitter revealed a little convo of hers where she was afraid for her life, she’s now strictly dickly and ‘gasp’ who was that knocking at her door?  Was it me?  Her stalker?  Her friend fed into it a bit.  Child, please.  And then she summed it up by saying that I was a crazy, controlling, psychotic stripper bitch.  I almost got mad.  Isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle crazy?  I was tempted, I was truly tempted to restart the convo.  And then I noticed something else – what the hell was I worried about?  She had all of 11 followers.  I’m not the only one making a grand effort to stay away from her…

I know, it's simply fascinating! What's better than that? Feedback. So let me have it...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s