I showed up to the Holiday Party on Friday night and Andy was already wasted. I haven't seen him in about 2 weeks, not since he sent me an email at 3am explaining that he would no longer be able to have any form of communication with me, asking me to please not try to get in touch with him anymore because it is too hard for him. Then, he got mad at me when I listened to him and didn't answer.
The first hour or so of the party was manageably awkward. He asked me if I wanted a piece of gum, but said the only flavor he had was Mint Chocolate Chip. I pulled out an identical pack from my purse and then he got teary and gave me a pitiful look and so I asked him if he wanted to hang out sometime soon or if I was still not allowed to talk to him. He said he'd like that. Then he told me that he got booked for a Chanel informal event and some sneaker ad. Oh, and he's started smoking weed again now that he's depressed.
The second hour of the party was slightly different. After consuming four more mixed drinks, he began a sentence talking about his sister's new apartment and ended it with how I am a fucking bitch. Ah, so much for a momentary lapse of not liking him. I thanked him, saying that I had almost missed him for a second and I appreciated him making things normal again. He did not care for my sarcasm and launched into a tirade of why I was a horrible person because I did not want to love him and marry him and spend the rest of my life with him (we "dated" for about 3 weeks.) Then, he turned on the heel of his shiny, pointed toe shoes and stormed away. I shrugged and started talking to the guy next to me, while Andy paraded around in my peripheral trying to hug every girl he could find, and then staring bitterly at me over each girl's shoulder.
An hour after that, he got kicked out of the bar. He swore he did not do anything, but his knuckles were bleeding when I found him in the parking lot, so who knows what actually happened. I'd taken the night off from drinking, so I offered him a ride home. I wish I could be a "fucking bitch" at times like these, and just let him walk his drunk, temperamental ass home in the cold, but I'm a big softy, so I walked him to be car and shoved him in the passenger seat and told him if he was going to puke he had to stick his head out the window. An hour later I finally kicked him out of my car after sitting outside his apartment building trying to navigate my way through his attempt at a serious conversation. (I should write a post about what happened with us, but I get annoyed even just thinking about taking the time to write about him, so I can't promise I will ever get around to it.)
I feel bad letting someone down. I hate letting people down. I have the what-can-i-do-to-make-you-happy disorder...but learning to find my own voice and to figure out what I actually want requires me to do what is best for me, even if it pisses people off. If Andy could have stayed "good andy" and not changed into a dramatic, crying, jealous mess with the temper of a pit bull, then maybe I would give him another chance. His shit, I've realized, is his shit to work out on his own, and it doesn't have anything to do with me. So for now I am going to enjoy the comical twist on the evening; him trying to say recite a Shakespeare sonnet to explain the way he felt, him cursing at the door handle when he couldn't open the door (even though I kept trying to explain to him that it was locked) and him answering his phone when some girl called and pretending it was his mother when I could clearly see his caller id.
I'm ok with being the fucking bitch that drives home alone at the end of the night, instead of the people-pleaser who stays over at some ranting boy's house just to make him happy.
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