beauty school drop(pings)

Once upon  a time, I fell in love with a boy who was in love with himself.

At a very white, muscular 6’2, his arms littered in stylish tattoos, I found myself incredibly… smitten with his ghetto swagger and black man slang.  He was what we Southern Californians call a “Bro”–a term defined indefinitely by the flat brimmed hat, the Famous Stars and Straps clothing, and the vocab of a 5 yr old.  I met him at a beauty school and the moment he came licking his lips toward me, I knew I was in for some trouble.

Pros:

-liked to drink (thumbs up!)

-paid for everything

-owned a car

-was a tattoo artist (thumbs couldn’t go any higher)

Cons:

-liked to drink (Wayyy too much.  Then drive immediately afterward.  He also was prone to bragging about my “dyson” and indulging in other sorts of humiliating facts about our sexy life to complete strangers)

-paid for everything (Then would complain about always having to pay for everything.  ESPECIALLY my drinks if we ever went out which I might add, I only had one or two at the most because I–like himself–needed to drive home).

-owned a car (That never drove to my house.  After he would complain about paying for everything, he would insist on me driving to his place in the valley–15 mins away–then we sit around his house and he’d flex)

-was a tattoo artist (which meant that A. his income was completely dependent on how many people he could fit into the week with school and B. that lots of girls were constantly trying to bang him which normally I wouldn’t care about, but he made me feel like maybe I should be caring)

Regularly, I would have bounce-housed out of this situation but I had a couple of things at stake.

-I genuinely loved watching him interact with other people.

-My mom (as he was one of her beauty school students) liked him a lot and really wanted me to give him a chance.

-he was only half way done with my tattoo (which I had gotten at a killer deal on)

-I have a terrible time ending things (reference to ‘follow your f(h)art”)

I even tried ending it several times but he was so charming and arrogant, seven no’s = a yes and you know how that old song and dance goes.

The first time I tried to break up with him we were at a Kinkos.

That day was totally annoying.  I had slept over and we had woken up early (7am-ish) to avoid running into his parents.  We spent the night prior drinking our little hearts out–finishing the bottle of jack we bought and playing several, several games of beer and pool.  We were tired, we were irritated, and we both had some serious bowel movements.  All throughout breakfast, we took our turns silently dry heaving over our meals and excusing ourselves for the bathroom until he suggests that he perhaps tattoo me that day…

just an excuse to see me more and just an excuse for me not to risk dying on the way home.

So we separately drove to a Kinkos around the corner from his house and he showed me how to use their computers.  Mid-search for the perfect picture, he taps my shoulder, “Baby, I got to go to the bathroom.  This stuff is kicking…”  I wave him off because the internet is charging me by the milli-second and I can’t chance wasting time.  Ten minutes later, I printed everything out.  Five minutes later, I stood by the color copier waiting for him.  Three minutes later, I considered texting him… but Nooo, come on.  He had to go to the bathroom, that’s pretty embarrassing already.  Twenty-five minutes from my initial arrival, as I’m walking out, he calls me.

“Hey baby, where you at?”

“UHM, AT KINKOS.  WHERE IVE BEEN FOR THE LAST 25 MINS”

“Oh cool… you coming back to my place?”

“Wait, you’re not here?”

“No, I’m at home.”

“But you said you had to go to the bathroom?”

“I did.”

“They have a bathroom here…”

“I know.”

“Uhm, WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME THAT YOU WENT TO YOUR HOUSE?”

“I just did.”

A very pissed off silence.

“Well… are you coming over?”

“I’ll have to think about that one.  I have to go.”

Click.  No way, man.  You just left me at a Kinkos.  I will not be going with you ANYWHERE EVER AGAIN.

I sit in my car and fume.  I, of course, was completely embarrassed that I would even consider hanging out with a guy (let alone sleep with one) that would leave you places and go home and expect you to instinctively know that they left to go home.  He calls me three times consecutively.  I ignore each one.  What I should have done?  Drive home.  What I did?  Answer on the fourth call.

“WHAT.”

“Are you leaving?!?!”

“Uhm, yeah.”

“But… WHY?!”

“Because…. you just left me at a kinkos.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.  I’m leaving.”

“Please, don’t go… please.. I’m begging you..”

“You know, this is really telling… like if you would leave me at a Kinkos, where else would you fucking leave me…”

“Come on, please, I’m begging you…”

“NO, this is shady shit and I’m not putting up with it…”

“Please, Chelsea, understand….”

“NO, I don’t even know where the fuck I am.  I’m irritated.  I don’t fucking feel well.  You’re a tool…”

“CHELSEA–I SHIT MYSELF”

after I laughed for a good ten-twenty minutes, I drove over to his house.  Now, looking back, what I realized is that that incident is the only reason why I kept him around three weeks longer than I should have.  Because I’m a sucker for a complete asshole who’s humbled–for a second– because he shat his pants.

March 17, 2010. Uncategorized.