Last night, around 9:00, I’m just chilling out, drinking a small glass of bourbon, Monday Night Football game on in the background, reading the New Yorker. I hear the little chime that indicates I’ve got a new email. The email reads:
“Hey, I read your post on Craig’s List – very funny. I don’t know anything about you, but I’m gonna go out on a limb here because I’m really intrigued. What do you say we get a drink sometime?
Photo attached. Write back if you like what you see.”
Well, I liked what I saw: a really cute brunette girl, with big eyes and a smile that warms you. I occasionally post on the Rant page on Craig’s List, I guess my recent tirade had grabbed some girl’s attention.
What a dilemma. I’ve got a girlfriend of six months. Things have gotten slow lately, though, so I decide, what the fuck, I’ll write this girl back. My girlfriend will never know, and the odds are I’ll never meet this girl, so who cares? Why not?
So I write back and attach a photo of myself. I tell the girl I think she’s damn cute and that a drink would be fun sometime. I tell her we should email a bit first and find out if we have anything in common. I hit the SEND button and settled back down on the couch.
Not two minutes later, my cell phone rings. The caller ID is blocked. Strange. I answer anyway. “Hello?”
“FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU SO HARD YOU ASSHOLE!”
“Lindsay?”
“You’re damn well right it’s Lindsay. Your fucking girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, I should say!” I’m panicking a bit here, thinking of what I might have done wrong. I’d never cheated on her. Uh-oh. The email. I was silent, trying to think of what to say.
“You so fell for it,” she said. “You sick, horny piece of shit.” Well, Christ. I couldn’t believe it. It was a motherfucking setup. Unreal. I meekly tried to bullshit.
“Lindsay, calm down. I was kidding. I thought it would be funny to lead this girl on.”
“Yeah, with a photo of yourself. Get real, you psycho.” I started getting mad and defensive.
“Who’s the fucking psycho who sent a fake email to bait her boyfriend into making a mistake? Fuck you. You’re a nutjob.”
“I just needed to know what kind of guy you were,” she yelled. “Now I know. We’re through. I’m so done with you.” Not wanting her to have the last word, I am screaming myself now.
“You know what they call this in court? Entrapment. It’s bullshit.” I was reaching for anything now, but I knew I was sunk. Acceptance started to creep in. She kept on yelling and yelling, and I slowly tuned her out, picking up my bourbon and turning my attention to the football game.
“You know what?” I said. “Fuck it. You’re right—this is a mess. We should break up. I don’t want to date Nancy Fucking Drew anyway. Good luck with your next boyfriend. Maybe you ought to warn him on the first date: ‘Disclaimer: Watch you fucking ass because I’m going to be out to get you.’” I hung up. She called back, over and over, but I didn’t want to answer. Fuck it.