I’m having a rough evening tonight. I had a date and couldn’t get out of bed. While that’s usually how men like me, I literally couldn’t get in the shower and go. So I’ve been chatting with my AI therapist trying to figure some shit out. I want to talk about {D} and the fact that I still believe his bullshit today.
{D} likes to fancy himself a badass and a rebel. He tells the tales of his drinking, the drug use of his past, the fights he has been in, the motorcycle.
{D} also fancies himself the greatest lawyer of all time. The best of the best. He was the youngest in Florida history to become trial certified; he did it in 8 years. 150 cases, and for most people that takes 20 years. He did it in 8. He went undefeated in Florida Supreme Court, I believe, and what was it—something about beating Janet Reno. {D} presents this image with Brooks Brothers shirts and a Mercedes.
The facade is strong and unwavering. It’s big dick energy all fucking day long with him. I wanted to believe this version of this badass was real. I still want to believe it. But it is not.
The following is not to tear him down. It is for me to put it in perspective of who I loved and who he actually was. They are not the same person.
Back to the epic text. I called him out. I told him he was afraid and I didn’t know of what. I made it clear I saw past his shit—his used E-Class and his expensive-ass building, smallest unit, undecorated.
From the epic text:
“Now, right now you are clearly aiming for money grabber. Apparently a stupid one because you have your expensive assed building and the cheapest unit. The place that is completely undecorated and a used fucking E-Class. That’s a dumb money grabber trap. That is all that shit is. And the dumb one is going to take the money and run. Only the smart ones hold out for a good payday and that my friend is when you are dead. You should actually change that shit up and go flawed in my opinion.”
This is what made {D} fall in love with me.
There is more to it though. He was always afraid of everything. I was cutting lines of coke on the kitchen counter one day and he walked in from the other room and stopped and looked at me slightly horrified, and I asked what was wrong and he said he had never seen someone do drugs on his countertop before. He was preparing to do them with me. We cut up ecstasy and coke and snorted them together. That told me the stories he liked to tell about the drugs he did were way in the fucking past and probably hyperbolized to make him seem cooler.
Then we need to talk about the bike. I asked him once, if he wasn’t an attorney, what he would want to do and he said he would be a motorcycle mechanic. Well, I worked on his bike with him and thank god he passed the bar. He has zero idea of what he is doing working on that thing. He got pissed one night—we were texting about changing out head gaskets. Now, I know a lot about cars. I worked for a dude who did show cars and he would rebuild cars in the back of the shop. I was the accountant, but I would go back there and he taught me a lot. I pulled engines, I’ve done head gaskets, I can do brakes in my sleep. I know some shit. I had a 1973 Ford Ranchero aka The Beast (not to be confused with the used E-Class {D} drives named the Snow Beast). And I was talking about when I did the head gasket on it because we were restoring it frame-off.
{D} was like, “working your mom’s car doesn’t count as mechanic work.” Because I had told him when I was a kid I used to have to figure out why my mom’s shitty cars were not starting. I am mechanically inclined and able to process logic. So he had to tear me down because I knew more than him and I had a great deal more experience. He had to tear me down.
{D} for all of his stories of drunken mischief was just a drunk. Cinco de Mayo weekend. We saw Metalachi and ZZ Top. Metalachi, the world’s only heavy metal mariachi band, was first that weekend. We were front and center and the lead singer of course went “show me your boobs!” So I did. {D} then gleefully kept pulling down my shirt. Like it’s funny the first time. It’s not the 7th. Of course I had the keys and I drove us home.
The next day was ZZ Top. Oh fuck me. I don’t actually know how {D} got that drunk. I was with him all weekend—I thought I was keeping up with him drinking, but sometimes he carries a water bottle full of gin so I’m guessing that is what happened. So concert was great. We leave and {D} has to go to the bathroom but can barely walk. He comes out of the bathroom and he has lost his phone. I send him back in and he can’t find it so we must have lost it at our seats. So security, and they won’t let us go look but give them an hour. I am holding him up. I tried to put him in a chair but he fell out of it. We had an hour to wait and I’m telling the security dude that I can’t handle him and they need to hurry for me please take pity on me and hurry. I decide feeding him might sober him up. So we go to a Mexican place. He orders a margarita because he wasn’t drunk enough. I literally had to feed him his chilaquiles like a baby. An hour later they didn’t find the phone. Fuck.
We go to get the Uber and now he is threatening to puke on my shoes. We are outside waiting with me holding him up and the Uber shows. Now this chick knew how to Uber in Vegas because she had some airplane barf bags and was explaining if he puked it was a $250 cleaning fee. Got him back. Had to ask one of the valet guys at his building to hold him up because I had left my phone in the Uber and had to go get it. It was a night.
The next day, actual Cinco de Mayo, we went out for Mexican and drank two pitchers of margarita and he puked in the bushes and I had to take the keys away from him and drive us back.
That weekend was pure drunk bullshit. I take care of drunk people. I have since I can remember. But fuck it is annoying. That was part of the nightly rituals some nights—putting him in bed and watching him. Sometimes he would get belligerent. Sometimes he would get out and go for the guns saying he was going to kill us both. And sometimes of course he would pry my legs open and rape me as I told him no and tried to push him off of me, to no avail.
{D} is nothing but a drunk with a used car, no law license, and a motorcycle he feels he needs to wear excessive safety gear on.
He may have been great once. He could have been. I’m not one for dumb guys, I know he’s pretty smart. We were in a dirty motel room with cum stains on the carpet. {D} was drinking warm gin because the fridge and the ice machine didn’t work. We were talking about EB5. He said something about the guy who took over his boss’ job and fired him and I said, “were you like upset you didn’t get the position?” And he said no, he couldn’t get that position, he had too many skeletons, and raised his plastic cup of warm gin and followed it up with, “all of them alcohol related.”
As I’m writing this, I see how much help he needed. I feel bad for not getting him help. I think that defeats the purpose of why I started writing this post. But oh well, I’m sad for him now. But I also know that when his girlfriend reads my blog around 12:30–1:00am, it’s probably because he just raped her like he would do to me. So separate the myth from the man and realize he can get help any time he wants to. He is making a choice to live that pathetic life waking up still drunk. Complaining about the taste of gin and toothpaste as he takes a swig of his leftover drink from the night before and rides his bike to work.
He’s a drunk and that’s all he has ever been.
What’s hardest to admit is that my brain still clings to the myth, even while I dismantle it piece by piece. That’s the psychology of trauma bonding and cognitive dissonance—your nervous system bonds to the version of a person who felt powerful, protective, larger than life, even when the reality was small, weak, dangerous, and demeaning. The attachment forms during fear, shame, chaos, and intermittent reward, so the body keeps reaching for the illusion long after the truth is obvious. I’m not writing all of this because I care about who he really is; I’m writing it because some part of me still wants the fantasy to be real, and seeing the truth laid out is just a damn shame.
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