Bocher #1 might be Bi-polar, not like jokingly, ‘Ha, he’s just bi-polar,’ but clinically bi-polar, as in takes medication for a chemical imbalance in his noggin.
After telling me we were ‘fundamentally incompatible,’ I deleted his number from my cell phone and decided to take his ridicule with stride. It was fun to write about, but I was moving on. Unfortunately, although done with him, he was not finished with me.
The Saturday of Halloween I receive a text from an unknown number as I’m getting together my costume of cat ears and a tale.
It reads, ‘Happy Haloween, Dorie. Be safe and hope you are doing well, :), Eric’
I laugh at the fact that he’s texted me and then at the fact that he has misspelled Halloween. For someone who claims to be a bal toyreh (scholar), he is a dumkop (dunce).
I forget about it, make my way to a house party in Dupont, and freeze my tiny tail off on the rooftop of a friend’s condo. My phone buzzes, I glance to it, another text from him:
‘Can you please help me?’
Being the nice young lady, and gitte neshomah (good soul) that I am, I text him back.
‘Are you okay?’
No, he’s not ill, well, physically…mentally, yes, as his ongoing responses imply. The man is wordy, like someone who wasn’t able to talk his whole life, and then suddenly, was given the go ahead. So, like the previous posts, I’m going to abbreviate the abundance of texts that he inundated my innocent phone with.
‘I don’t know what your deal is but I would like to talk face to face. I am baffuled (yes he spelled it this way) by your behavior. You’re stupud(yes that’s the spelling). I’m hot. You narcissist.'
My jaw does not close, even as I type a response. I’m a little ongetrunken (drunk), but enough to know when someone is being rude and offensive. I type back:
‘Huh? You berated me and told me you just wanted 2 be friends. Are you drunk?’
‘No dorie. I’m not. U suck u r so self involved. You are so disrespectful. You hurt my feelings. You are an idiot. I would have taken care of your tuition and whatever else stressed you out. You are a fucking idiot so be miserable and wither.’
Truthfully, I don’t know how to reply and what to say. A 30 yr old man has just told me that I hurt his feelings, that I was an idiot, and that without him I will be sure to lead a lonesome, horrible life.
I’m kaas (angry), and want him to quit texting me, but know that ignoring him is not the answer. He will simply continue with the texts until my inbox is full of bullshit.
So, I call him on my way home from the party.
He answers and in the background I hear the drunken muffles of others. It sounds like he’s at McDonalds ordering off their dollar menu. This negates his denial of drunkenness. No man who takes a date to The Ritz Carlton eats McDonalds just for the
‘Hi, Dorie. This is [he states his full name]. Where have you been?’
‘Hi, Bocher #1. What do you mean where have I been? You told me you just wanted to be friends. So, what do you want, Bocher # 1’
‘I don’t want to be just friends. I want to be your boyfriend.’
I sit in my car tsemisht (bewildred) and laughing, and then tell him that he’s drunk and we can talk about this at another time.
I hang up, change into my pajamas and fall fast asleep until 7 am, when my cell buzzes next to me.
I am an incredibly light sleeper. The sound of an orange tic tac hitting the floor could jar me awake, keep me awake, and greatly anger me.
I open the phone. It’s him, shocking! 2 texts read:
‘Doe is rude and extremely offensive.’
I do not respond until later that afternoon. I know you are thinking at the moment, why the fuck is she even responding? To which, I will reply with the answer, ‘I don’t fucking know.’
I text: ‘I think we need to talk about last night. Please call me when you get the chance.’
He responds: ‘Its fine we r cool now.’
I’m surprised by the normality of this text and type back:
‘Really, because last night, not so cool.’
Bocher #1 does not disappoint and responds with a usual fluster of insanity.
‘Really? Well your behavior since we first met, ‘not so cool.’ I have 2 gfs now one is 19 and the other is a hostess at the cheesecake factory and is interested in converting to Judaism. They are both much nicer than you.’
I laugh, and laugh, and then laugh some more while typing, ‘Congrats.’
His response: 'Ugh. I don’t know why I care so much but you are insulting and hurtful. You are replaceable. Ta-ta.’
Any man who types, texts, or says the words ‘ta-ta’ is questionable.
I remove myself from my phone and continue on with my day, thinking that Bocher # 1 is done with the texts, but no, he returns for more, and my poor phone becomes yet again a victim.
‘I am sorry for my last message. I would like to get together and talk sometime if you’d be willing.’
Honestly, I don’t know whether to blow it off and tell him to zolst es shtipin in toches (shove it up his rectum) or respond, because I really need another good blog. So, for the sake of the blog, I agree to meet up with him to discuss his intentions and remarks.