"Oh, yes, he loves me. And you know that can't be bad." Beatles. Really? Is it really a good thing to be loved by someone who's truly WEIRD? Scott's a never-ending soap opera. Maybe that's why I accept his calls, read his texts without automatically hitting delete. He kills me slowly, but he's never boring. He's a three-ring circus with tigers who've got fangs; he's a tight rope walker without a net. Anything but dull.
Today's another story. He texted me a million times (yes! I know. YES! I'd blocked his texts from Verizon), though I have NO idea how he got through. He wanted to make sure I got to school today, that the blizzard here wasn't too dangerous, that I had a ride home, that I was OK. GAWD.
OK, "Dumping-guilt" I thought to myself. Then came the flirting texts, and a freaking nudie shot. Then he had the audacity to call me. I took the call (since I'd deleted his custom ringer, pictures and phone from my email) as it only "ding-donged" and I thought it was Jen.
All around Mr. Nice Guy. Also said he had some "other things" he wanted to chat with me about, but not today. Mr. Pleasant and Attentive. Whatever.
It's like the minute he knows I'm SO DONE, he's all about me. But at least I'm not sad, depressed or anxious. It's more like, "OK, Houdini. What rabbit you going to pull out of your hat next?"