Dating Mimsy

the road to love is paved in horse shit

the line between admiration and obsession

In my last post I mentioned an incident that made me hesitant to give out my home address.  Here’s the story:

There is a thin line between admiration and obsession.  I am always flattered when I get attention from any guy.  Normally I’m surprised if he’s really into me, because I know me and even though I think I’m awesome, I’m no Giselle Bundchen.  Not many women are, which is why when it crosses the line into obsession that the line starts to blur.

Patrick was a cute guy that I met while I lived in the dorms my first year of school.  He had shaggy brown hair and a great personality.  If he had told me he was crowned homecoming king each year of high school I wouldn’t have taken him as a liar.  I wanted him to be mine.  

When I ran into him at parties and around campus he was very funny and charming and I formed a bit of a crush.  I don’t think he picked up on it until I got drunk one night my sophomore year and laid the flirting on him real thick.  He asked for my number.

We went on a date the next day which was fine, I guess, but not very memorable as I sit here typing.  Maybe because what happened after that date turned into a huge nightmare and overshadowed the seemingly innocent date.  Later that same weekend we both went to a party that was hosted by my ex, Chris, who happened to still be a very close friend of mine.  

Now, let me just explain something: We didn’t show up to the party together, nor would I have considered us “together” as we had only had one date over coffee.  Obviously Patrick had a different idea.  Flirting over coffee to him meant I was his now and no one else could talk to me.  He followed me around the party like a fly to shit, and let me tell you — if you ever end up dating me, please don’t hover around me.  I like my freedom and if we’re together I won’t ignore you, but if I’m trying to have an intimate conversation with my girlfriend about ovaries or whatever the hell girls talk about I don’t want someone standing over my shoulder listening in.  If you don’t have a uterus, get the fuck out of my ovaries conversation.  Unless you’re a dude gynecologist. Or should I say… a GUYnecologyst.  Clever, Mimsy.

We played a nice game of cat and mouse that night.  After several attempts to shake him and do my own thing, I begged Chris to help me leave the party without Patrick noticing.  Enough was enough, this was getting creepy and I didn’t feel comfortable with a guy that couldn’t enjoy himself without latching onto me, especially one that couldn’t take a hint.

Chris’s bedroom led straight out to a private patio that led to the street.  I just had to get to the bedroom without Patrick seeing me and I’d be home free for at least the night.  I didn’t know what had gotten into him.  For a year he acted like I didn’t exist, then after one cup of coffee he became so attached that I felt smothered.  Again, I would love to know what I said during that date so that I could write some great article for Cosmo, “How to Turn Your Crush into Your Stalker.”

When Patrick went to the bathroom, this was my time to escape.  Chris followed me to his room and closed the door, then offered to walk me home because I was so shaken up.  Then, I heard pounding on the door.  ”Mimsy, what the FUCK is going on in there?” I froze and crouched down by his bed when Chris opened the door, “What’s up?”

"I saw you bring Mimsy in there, she’s with me."

"Mimsy isn’t in here dude I was just going to change my pants because I spilt beer on them."

"I SAW her go in there with you, dude.  Stop fucking around!"

This went on for a little bit and Chris managed to convince him that they should go look for me elsewhere.  Once they were far enough down the hall, I took the opportunity to book it out that door, down the patio stairs and run home 6 blocks to my apartment.  I was terrified, honestly.  I had never seen someone get that angry before over me.  I felt sorry that I put Chris in that situation.

I saw Patrick drive by my house a few times a day after that.  He called me and left me messages telling me that what I did at the party was bullshit but he was willing to give me another chance.  I didn’t call him back.  He called more and left me angry messages telling me I was a bitch and he hoped I would die.  I didn’t call him back.  He called me even more apologizing and asking me to give him another chance.  I didn’t call him back.

It wasn’t until I had to call the police that I realized he wasn’t going away.  My room in my apartment was located on the second floor of the building right above the front door. Attached was a private bathroom with a tiny balcony.

A few weeks after the party incident my roommates had gone out and I decided to have the night to myself.  I ordered pizza and turned on Laguna Beach.  Patrick had been driving by my place daily, he even knocked on the door a few times.  I didn’t answer, but my roommates usually did and would tell him I wasn’t home.  His threatening calls had calmed down a bit, and now he just sounded remorseful.  I felt bad, really, but if he was this upset after one date, what would he be capable of after seriously dating?

I was just biting into my first slice of mushroom when I heard a door shut upstairs.  Strange, because I thought all my roommates were out.  I paid no mind to it until I heard rustling in my bathroom.  None of my roommates used my bathroom, so something was definitely weird.  I called up from the couch, “Mel? Do you need something?”

No answer.

"Mel? Amanda? Jackie?" Nothing.

I grabbed the knife I used to cut the pizza and stupidly went upstairs.  When I got to the top I saw my bathroom light on and the door leading to the balcony wide open.  I checked in my room and the other bedrooms but didn’t see anyone.  Someone had been in my apartment that did not live there nor was invited.  A burglar!  All my jewelry and my computer was still in my room.  Nothing that I could tell was moved or anything.  Maybe the wind blew the door open.  

I walked into the bathroom to shut the door when I saw what he did.  In my lipstick he wrote on my mirror “FUCK YOU BITCH.”  I screamed and called 911.  I also called Chris.  Bless his heart, he came over and stayed with me that night.  He gave a witness statement to the police about what happened at the party a few weeks prior.

I ended up getting a restraining order against Patrick, which was really awkward but completely necessary.  Breaking and entering is not okay, especially if you leave behind threatening messages.  Little things like that don’t really turn me on.

I only ran into Patrick once after that.  He passed me on the street and screamed that I was a fucking psycho bitch to everyone around me.  I’m sure they believed him. 

  • 11 September 2011
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