The Great Big Text Nightmare

I use the word nightmare because I’m a wishful thinker, honestly.

But, no. I did this in real life. I screwed up so hard. A couple of nights ago I drank approximately a bottle and a half of wine. For those of you who don’t drink, or for those of you who have a vastly different tolerance level than I do, this puts me just about at Incredibly Irrational, but nowhere near Blackout Rage. I, however, was definitely past Comfortably Numb. I remember most of what happened. Conveniently, I had forgotten, however, that I had attempted to contact and old friend just before going to bed that night.

Until he texted me today.

His name is saved as Shithead in my phone. So from now on, he’ll be referred to as SH to protect both myself from embarrassment should he or someone I know find this and his identity. Although, I suppose that is out of the window. I once wrote his phone number with directions to contact Big Daddy for drugs (which he does not sell) on the inside of a big plastic playground in a park in a town he no longer lives in. He still receives strange texts from time to time, asking about Big Daddy.

But here’s a little bit of backstory. For context.

SH and I met in high-school, which right now means we’ve been friends for four or five years. I don’t know. I’m bad at math. It’s been a long time. Basically, I met him after a really nasty breakup with an ex that you all will learn about in due time. And we became very fast friends. He came over to my house the first time we hung out, licked my cat and peed off of my back porch. He acted as though he were in physical pain anytime I tried to hug him. But he was so incredibly great to talk to. We connected on a level that I just really needed to connect with someone in my time of need.

And that’s what we were to each other. For a long time. We leaned on each other when we needed each other. And, honestly, I have always felt as if the universe somehow pushed us together at the exact right moment to be there for each other.

But at some point we stopped needing each other.

And then he moved out of the state and I felt abandoned because I take everything very personally even though he was just trying to pursue his own happiness.

There’s more to it than that. But that’s for another time and another place.

So back to today. I’m sitting on my couch, minding my own business, when SH pops up on my phone. My heart stops beating for a second, because it’s been months since I’ve spoken to him, probably. Last time we made contact, I told him that we weren’t friends anymore. (Also another story for another time.) So I was startled, to say the least.

But I made sure to reply to all of my other texts and emails and Facebook alerts first, because I was kind of scared to open his text.

It read, “I’m not really sure how to respond to any of that…”

My eyes briefly glanced over the above text messages, and my stomach twisted as I started to remember texting. And calling. And texting quite a bit more while drunk. Remember the one and a half bottles of wine?

Without reading any of it, I typed a response.


I looked up into the brown and unjudging eyes of my wonderful mutt, Tater Thot, and begged her to tell me that this was okay. She didn’t. Because she is a puppy and her only skills are loving me and pooping. But it still felt nice.

Being the brave soul that I am, I looked back up at the texts that I had sent. They were cringe-worthy. I all but begged him to pay attention to me. I’ve long since deleted them, though they will probably float around in my memory like the terrifying tyrants they are for years to come.

Just for a taste, the worst one had to be, “We were supposed to be friend soulmates but then you left and so now we’re not and you’re the only reason I thought those existed and I know it’s not your fault you left me here for [your current state of residence] but it feels like you just did it because you hate me. come back and be my universe.”

After I read over the texts, I sent a follow-up message that I am an embarrassment. Drunk me is an embarrassment, to be exact. Because real me would never have done that. I’ve always said that the actions you make while under the influence are forgivable. Getting so far under the influence that you make them is what isn’t. Put that on a cool text picture and link people to this.

He responded, “yeah.”

I sent a couple of other follow-up responses. At first, I was cold and reserved.

“We can go back to not talking if you want to.”

Then, I kind of backpedaled. “If you want. I’m sorry.”

And, finally, I caved. “You can still text me if you ever need anything. I don’t know if that means anything to you but.”

Part of me really wants SH to text me back. He hasn’t yet. And he probably never will. As long as I never get drunk enough to think that texting him is a good idea again, he’ll never have a reason to. And that really makes me sad. Because, for a while, he was the only real friend that I had in this world. Not only that, but I like to think that I used to be special to him, too. And it’s really hard to lose something like that. A vacancy like that is a much different experience than the absolute frustration that death feels like. It feels more like a cramp than a hole in my heart. I’ll always be yearning for what was and what could have been our friendship.

The other part of me never wants to hear from him again. Not because he hurt me or anything. But because I want to think that he’s better than to let someone who would abandon him the way I did back into his life.

Chances are though that I text him as soon as I publish this post because I am weak.


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