I blogged previously about the cute younger guy who, when I first met him, was convinced I was none other than Satan's right hand (or would that be left hand?) man. After I cleared up THAT confusion, he contacted me. Even commented on a post I had in a previous incarnation of this blog. Roll credits: all's well that end's well. Or so I thought.
When I saw he'd dropped me as a Skype contact, then didn't respond to my sincere birthday wishes, I became concerned. Why in blazes would I be concerned? He's a grown up, has family, friends, seemed to have dealt with whatever paranoia or pronoia or pro-choice issues that dogged him.
Boy, was I fucking WRONG.
No good deed goes unpunished, and yes, because I thought he was cute, and sane, I emailed him. Well, that last sentence should have ended with cute. When I saw on he'd put something about 'being possessed' I knew it was time to stick my nose, foot and hand into trouble. So, I emailed my Little Lost Luke Cloudwalker to inquire. I should have just asked what size he wore in a strait-jacket and ordered one.
This resulted in a response to my email and subsequent two to three hour text-fest that basically consisted of:
-was I using meth?
-why was I sticking my nose into his business?
-was I using meth?
-what a rude, self-centered, egotistical, nosy son-of-a-bitch bastard I was
-and was I using meth? Because if I was, he couldn't talk to me.
The best way to not get an answer out of me, is to demonstrate that you have, have, have, have, to know.
To say when I finally had enough, and with a heavy heart told him I was ending communication, was one of the hardest goodbyes I have ever uh...typed. His comments to me were so cruel, misdirected nd downright mean, I can only wonder what issues he had been 'told' were the cause of his drug use, but I had to question what drugs he was taking that would create such a different person than the cheerful guy I thought I knew.
And then, I had a theory what the problem was. And, being the SOB I am (he wasn't totally off the mark on some of his observations) I asked him straight out-and just like you see in the movies where the main character has this terrifying revelation: I knew the answer:
He was IN rehab (again) and that was why he was so fucked up. And why most likely he couldn't talk.
He denied it, but was I using meth?
This game...or whatever the fuck caring for someone genuinely and getting your head handed back to you in that style, lost its charm right then and there.
When I saw he'd dropped me as a Skype contact, then didn't respond to my sincere birthday wishes, I became concerned. Why in blazes would I be concerned? He's a grown up, has family, friends, seemed to have dealt with whatever paranoia or pronoia or pro-choice issues that dogged him.
Boy, was I fucking WRONG.
No good deed goes unpunished, and yes, because I thought he was cute, and sane, I emailed him. Well, that last sentence should have ended with cute. When I saw on he'd put something about 'being possessed' I knew it was time to stick my nose, foot and hand into trouble. So, I emailed my Little Lost Luke Cloudwalker to inquire. I should have just asked what size he wore in a strait-jacket and ordered one.
This resulted in a response to my email and subsequent two to three hour text-fest that basically consisted of:
-was I using meth?
-why was I sticking my nose into his business?
-was I using meth?
-what a rude, self-centered, egotistical, nosy son-of-a-bitch bastard I was
-and was I using meth? Because if I was, he couldn't talk to me.
The best way to not get an answer out of me, is to demonstrate that you have, have, have, have, to know.
To say when I finally had enough, and with a heavy heart told him I was ending communication, was one of the hardest goodbyes I have ever uh...typed. His comments to me were so cruel, misdirected nd downright mean, I can only wonder what issues he had been 'told' were the cause of his drug use, but I had to question what drugs he was taking that would create such a different person than the cheerful guy I thought I knew.
And then, I had a theory what the problem was. And, being the SOB I am (he wasn't totally off the mark on some of his observations) I asked him straight out-and just like you see in the movies where the main character has this terrifying revelation: I knew the answer:
He was IN rehab (again) and that was why he was so fucked up. And why most likely he couldn't talk.
He denied it, but was I using meth?
This game...or whatever the fuck caring for someone genuinely and getting your head handed back to you in that style, lost its charm right then and there.
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