Story Part IX

To be entirely honest with you all, I am still not sure if the fake profile I created then was a joke or an actual revenge plot. I do know that I was in a volatile emotional state, and at times, proceeded in both veins. The profile, itself, was written to be ingratiatingly obvious; the profile name was taken from one of his favorite albums. Under the prompt "If I could be anywhere," I wrote in the date and location to a concert of his favorite musician, from his favorite era. My fake person's location was San Francisco, her occupation, an editor. Everything was tailored to his tastes. I winked at him and then waited for the joke/revenge plot to unfold.

I suppose I wanted him to out me right away--after all, during our brief courtship, we enjoyed regaling each other of our adventures writing fake profiles. When he didn't, I vascillated between wanting him to fall in love with the fake person so that I could hurt him and wanting him to fall in love with me again so that I would stop hurting. I know it wasn't exactly sane, but neither was I at this time.

The first few emails were innocent enough; I asked about what music he listened to, rambled about abstract concepts. Again, unsure if I wanted him to actually know it was me, I tried to change my signature writing style. I told him I never wanted to speak on the phone or visit him--I wanted a "meta-relationship."

Oh, yes. That's what I told him.

I just kept waiting for the hammer to fall. I wanted confirmation for what I already knew: That I had become an emotional wreck, stooping to new and amazing levels of desperation and obsession. And I was hoping he would release me from this charade by either ceasing communication or asserting my true identity.

He did neither.

After about two weeks of navigating this river of insanity, I threw my oars overboard and headed for the rapids:

"Dear Sebastian,
Just so we can remind ourselves why we're engaging in this meta-relationship, please describe your last two relationships. Make me laugh so hard the neighbors furrow their brows; beg borrow or steal liberties if you must, but please make it funny.

Sophia."

That's right dear readers. Yours truly had dreadfully morbid curiosity. I was desperate to know why, how I had managed to screw up such potential in a mere three days. What was so wrong with me? How could I possibly have deserved to be written off so succintly, so entirely, so coldly?

He responded. And those words are now burned into my brain like a permanent neural epitaph:

"Phd Student. 28. Genius, sad she's not a supergenius. Smoked a lot, laughed a lot, too, which went a long way toward redemption. Quite funny, but I feared a little mean. I think she was quite angry I wasn't as interested as I was supposed to be.

There. You've been indulged.

Sebastian"


And that's when my little fraying thread just snapped.