Oh my god. Timothy. You did not just do that.

Of course you did.

Let me catch the readers up to speed, here.

If you recall in my last post, sort of, I briefly mention I was sort of seeing someone. Timothy was that someone. Keyword: was.

This man drove me insane on a regular basis. His ability to communicate rivaled the communicative ability of sea urchins. When confronted about his horrible communication patterns, his reaction was to laugh.

I could have killed him. I should have killed him. I should have walked right out of his life and never looked back.

But I’m an idiot so of course I didn’t do that.

Instead I allowed him to infect my mind and work his way into every conversation I had, eventually it got to the point where nothing I did was without the thought of Timothy. I’m honestly so tired of his name, so tired of thinking about him, my soul cringes every time I type it out, say it aloud, think it at all.

Timothy. Timothy. Timothy. GET. OUT. OF. MY. HEAD. dammit.

It’s creepy, really.

It all started out fine, we started seeing each other about a week after Lover #3 and I parted ways. Everything was cool and casual. My recent knee surgery was a little weird for him, but sometimes he would help me wrap the bandage up again and the whole thing was very sweet.

Then after a night out in Manayunk, he decided to let me in on a little VERY BIG secret. Apparently he was only seeing me. I played that off like it was fine, I played it off like, hey, that’s cool, me too. I’m a filthy liar.

Long story short, Timothy never told me anything until it was too late or no longer relevant. Timothy spent two months of my time being elusive, but present. Caring, but never too much. Sharing, but only when it was hardly worth it anymore. I guess you could say he was stringing me along. I guess it’s hard to  explain why I knew that wasn’t the case, I’m also not going to expend the energy trying to explain to you why I knew it wasn’t the case. Especially because it did always sort of feel that way.

Timothy is in Georgia at basic for the army now, he’s going into the special forces. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye. That’s cool, Tim. Thanks a lot.

He’s supposed to write me letters…I don’t even know if I care enough to read them anymore. If he even sends any.

So, basically, here’s how you know you got yourself what I like to call a fuckboy. (I’ve dated quite a bit, you can trust me on these.)

1.He will love to tell you about how smart he is, but he will never really showcase that intelligence in front of you.

Timothy was king of this. “I’m so smart!” “Really? Why do you say that?”

I got a 3.89 at the University of South Carolina and I was also in a frat and never studied for more than 45 minutes for anything!

I got into the Naval Academy! I went to private school! I got a perfect score on the Army IQ test!

It always came out as, “be jealous of me.” It wasn’t attractive. I always kind of wanted to smack him and tell him to leave. He bragged about his SAT score, about how he did in this class and that class. I was like, dude, really, get over it. None of that matters when you have the emotional intelligence of a spider.

I mean, really, this guy was impossible to talk to. He couldn’t really carry a conversation about much of anything. Getting him to say what was on his mind, even if it wasn’t about anything emotional, was like pulling teeth. If he was so smart, why couldn’t he act like anything else besides a complete meat head? Speaking of which…

2. You’ll know how much he can bench/deadlift/squat/lift in general, but you’ve never been to the gym with him.

Why do I know that you can bench over 600 lbs? Because you told me. But guess what, we were talking about me and my knee surgery. Not about you and how you go to the gym for hours without telling me and then I text you like three times wondering where the hell you went that whole time. If you can bench 600 lbs, you can lift up your phone to text me back in between sets, Vin Diesel.

3. He has a dog, loves his mom, and is Italian.

Just run, girl.

I don’t know what it is about this combination, but it’s seriously a bad one. I’d venture to say that really, he’s fuckboy if he’s Italian and loves his mom. The dog is just a bonus indicator. Timothy’s dog’s name was Gunner. Genuinely do not know why I didn’t see this as a red flag.

Speaking of flags…

4. American flag anything.

If you’re on his Instagram and he’s wearing American flag shirts, pants, blazers, what have you, exit now. That kind of patriotism leaves no room in his fuckboy heart for you, girlfriend.

5. The “Too Cool to Care” Attitude.

When you addressed that thing he does that really pisses you off, he laughed. He told you about how “so many other people also get annoyed about that.” But he has no intention of changing it. He has no intention of being better. He thinks it’s not a big deal.

New flash, honey.

If people besides the girl you’re “unofficially dating” (his words, not mine) are equally as pissed off with you about it, it’s probably a big deal. She’s probably not crazy. You’re probably just a fuckboy.

My newest friend Jackie said it best.

“You know, if you were texting him saying you were gonna give him $1 million, he’d be texting back a lot damn faster.”

Conclusion: if he doesn’t value you at a MINIMUM of $1 million, walk your valuable behind right on away to the next one, sweetheart.

Or be truly single. That’s the best solution.

6. He was in a fraternity, and he lived in the fraternity house.

Never a good thing.

So now that you know a few ways to spot a fuckboy, you can better prepare yourself to take on the infuriating world of dating.

You’re welcome, love.

EDIT: I was advised to change this guy’s real name to a pseudonym. After a short period of resistance, I decided I agreed it should be changed.

3 thoughts on “Timothy

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