Once you go Black, you can't go back

You'd think that I was talking about skin colour, right? Well, you're wrong as hell.

Mister Black texted me on Sunday (while I was busy getting angry at Mister Yellow). He told me that he found my disc golf frisbees, and was willing to return them to me if I agreed to listen to him for a few hours. The discs felt like excuses, to be honest. He could have just left them in my mail box.

Wednesday night.
Mister Black drove 500 miles to see me. What the fuck is wrong with him? I confronted him about it. He said that he wanted to show me that he cares for me, that he can make an effort. That he still feels deeply for me, and wanted me to see that. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Speechless. Again. I hate when that happens. 

He talked for three hours. I had absolutely nothing to say to him. I just sat there, listening, crying. The sleeves of my dinosaur sweatshirt were soaked with tears. He was sincerely sorry for all the shit he put me through. He didn't ask for a second chance, he just wanted to take a walk with me some day. And if that went ok, maybe do stuff that we had planned to do.

I met him a few times, really enjoyed my time with him. We had fun together, shared many laughs and happy moments. We agreed to keep things a secret from our mutual friends, just in case things don't work out.

Something strange happened. I turned my girlfriend mode on, wanted to stop seeing my Misters. Mister Black told me that I shouldn't do it, he doesn't want to be treated any differently than all my other guys. "You sure?" I asked. He said yes, but my feelings for him are much deeper than some random Mister. I dumped every single colourful guy, every Mister, just to be with my Mister Black. I'm such an idiot.

Well, shit hit the fan. I found myself feeling the same way I did before I was miserable. I wanted to turn back time, maybe a year or so, to the happiest summer I've ever experienced. That lasted for a week.

During the week we had the most stupid fights I can imagine. He installed Tinder, just to see what all the fuss was about. He didn't tell me about it, I found out myself. Wednesday morning, I saw his phone light up with a few push messages from Tinder. I wasn't jealous, I had no reason to be. I simply said "Oh, you have Tinder? Good for you, I hope you find what you're looking for" and started World War III. He became all weird and accused me of sleeping with all kinds of guys (he was right, but he had no right to be angry at me). He left my home slamming doors - I guess my reaction wasn't exactly what he was hoping for. What was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to be the jealous girlfriend, although we weren't even dating? I didn't get it. The next few days were rough. He was seeking for attention, I didn't give it to him.

Weekend came. I made plans to be with Mister Black. He did a no-show. Twice.

That was it. I can't believe that he slipped back to being the shitty person that he is in a week. I won't give him any third chances, we all know that he's a terrible boyfriend. I woke up on Sunday morning with my mind going "what the HELL was I thinking?" 


I sent him a message saying: "Don't text me anymore. Have a great summer." That was it, at least for now.

The story of Mister Black

Do you know the feeling when you really couldn't care less for someone, yet you still hang on to them?

That's the story of my life with Mister Black. He was my band-aid, my ultimate rebound guy.

Before I get properly started on my story about my life with Mister Black, let me share a few details of myself, the pretty little kitten writing this tiny blog.

I'm a normal girl in my twenties. I have a "real" job, working mostly nine to five. In my spare time I run around the neighbourhood in my hip-hugging black tights and hot pink sneakers and entertain my silly little friends. I wouldn't consider myself especially hot, but there's some weird quality in me that guys find attractive. If you know what the heck it is, let me know.

Later on you'll see that I'm a cold-hearted b*tch, but I wasn't born that way. I used to be "the girl next door".

I used to live with a guy, we'll call him Mister Grey. I stayed with him for way too many years, if you ask me. I met him when I was seventeen, moved in with him at nineteen and separated at twenty-four. If you ask me, I was a perfect, happy little housewife. I made him dinner every night, made sure that he was happy in every possible way. I never spent a night alone after my eighteenth birthday - that is, before I found myself sitting on the couch, telling him to leave our home in the foulest words possible. Weird, isn't it?
It really wasn't my decision to end the relationship, although it may sound that way at first. Mister Grey met a cute dark-haired girl at his company's Christmas party and found himself utterly unhappy with me. He made me miserable, it felt like hurting me was his only mission in life. He broke me into a thousand tiny bits and my heart was covered in bruises. I guess he wanted to push me away, to make sure that I leave him so he doesn't have to make all the hard decisions. This behaviour went on for about six or seven weeks. I lost count at the end. Before we broke up I cried every day and night, couldn't sleep and refused to eat.
After the break-up I was happy, almost delirious. I found myself smiling all the time. Wide smiles, in a Cheshire cat kind of way. It physically hurt my face to smile continuously for days. I guess I just wasn't used to feeling joyful after months of misery.

My friends were awesome. My bf took me clubbing on the first Friday of my new single life. I had never been single in a club before. It was funny, I guess I sent out a weird vibe because I had to push guys away from me. On that Friday my 14-second rule was invented. 14 seconds is generally the time that I'm alone at a club before I'm hit on by some random tall dude in a plaid button-up shirt.
On my first single Friday I did something I'd never done before. I brought a guy home. To our home. Wow, wasn't that odd. I won't even give that random guy his own colour, since I really don't give a damn about him, I don't even remember his name. He was from another town, a few hundred miles away. He fell in love with me instantly. I felt validated, some guy actually liked me for who I was, wanted to touch me and went through all kinds of trouble to pleasure me. Sex with him was awesome. My-brain-splattered-on-the-walls-awesome. I stuck around for a good four or five weeks. It was just another regular Thursday, he called me after work and wanted to tell me something. He told me that he was in love with me, and I freaked out. I broke up with him on the phone, because I couldn't care less to meet him. I told myself that he wasn't the right guy for me, because he never trained legs and it pissed me off.

That's where Mister Black stepped in. He was my Facebook friend, I met him when I was sixteen or seventeen. At sixteen or seventeen, I dated him a few times, until I found out that he slept with tens of chicks. I wasn't that into competing for his attention, so I simply quit seeing him. Somehow he remained in the far-left corner of my mind, I wouldn't delete him from my Facebook friends although I didn't see him for years. It was a Monday night, I had the worst cold ever, and wrote a Facebook post basically saying "I'm sick. Please someone entertain me, bring me food and I'll make it worth your while" and you know who answered - Mister Black, of course. He was funny, he felt like an adventure. I Whatsapped him for a good few days before actually meeting him. When I met him my heart caught fire. I just knew it, this was the guy I should be with, like, forever, or something. I had been single for five weeks when I went for a coffee with him. I met him almost every day, spent every waking moment looking at my phone, wishing he'd send me a message. A good five or six months later I changed my Facebook relationship status from "single" to "in a relationship" - and made it official. I experienced all sorts of stuff with him, we spent four weeks together roadtripping in the summer. Hands down, happiest time of my life.
Basically he was a good friend, but a lousy boyfriend. He couldn't handle money at all. In fact, he still owes me about £1000. He promised me stuff he couldn't keep and I ran to other men, asking for help. That made him ridiculously jealous and I seriously wanted to yell at him. But I didn't, I just turned cold and ignorant. He could spend a weekend without even texting me, even though we'd made plans to do something together. Every time he promised to do be with me, I made other plans "just in case", because I couldn't trust him one bit. I still feel that way about certain guys. I just don't trust them at all.
I dated him for 13 months. Way, way too long. Turns out he cheated on me on every possible occasion. I found that out when I went to his place to collect my stuff after arguing for a few hours on the phone. I stood there, emptying my drawer and packing my bags. I gave him an iPad for Christmas and had trouble deciding whether to take it or leave it, when his roommate suggested that I read his Facebook messages... I guess he wanted me to know something I should have seen coming for a while. I'm a kind of a daredevil, I read the messages and saw how things were. It's really funny how some things don't even surprise you. That's when I learned something about myself: I didn't really care for him. I wasn't hurt that he was somewhere fucking other girls (even though he still denies it), I was stone cold inside. I shrugged, packed my bags, said bye to Mister Black's roommate and disappeared. We broke up on Whatsapp. I didn't even call him.

The good thing with Mister Black was that he helped me get over Mister Grey. Mister Grey used to call me up on the phone, whining, asking me to get together with him.. I guess life with the black-haired chick didn't work out as planned. Too bad.

Mister Grey and Mister Black are still a part of my life, although I hate it. Mister Grey still owns half of the flat I call home, and Mister Black owes me a serious amount of money. And he has my kettle. I seriously want it back. I Whatsapped him about it today, and somehow he'd "forgotten" about it. Someone, please find him and punch him in the throat.

That's the story of my former life.