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Chronicles of Crazywood: Star Rocker |
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- By Bridget Phetasy
- Published 05.09.07
- LAme
Chapter 4
Star Rocker
For those of you who have been following The Chronicles of Crazywood, back in Single 4-Eva I promise some sordid stories from the frontlines of the dating world in L.A. And whether you want to hear these stories or not--I'm going to tell them. Here goes nothin'.
Exhibit A: The Rockstar
First there was the Rockstar. I’ve written about him before. He was the one I fell in (and out, and in, and out, and in….) of love with via an extended instant messaging session that lasted 8 hours. It’s not like some creepy thing where we met online. A very close mutual friend set us up but we had yet to meet face to face. We had three falling-outs before we ever even met in person, most of them taking place via text message.
We finally make plans to meet. We make it three dates.
Here’s how they play out:
"Beyond L.A." Rockstar's Girlfriend
Date 1: We meet. I eat dinner. He watches. When he gets up to go to the bathroom, some dude sitting with a woman who looks like his mom turns around and asks me how long I’ve known Rockstar for. I lie and say a while. Oh, so you’re good friends? He asks. Yeah. I lie. Oh, cuz he gave a good girlfriend of mine a shiner. He smirks. Awesome. I say.
Mommy’s boy leaves and I tell Rockstar his reputation precedes him when he returns. He looks like he can’t remember which chick it could possibly be. All of a sudden I get deathly ill and it feels like a small alien is trying to escape through my belly button. Despite the information I have just received from Mommy’s Boy I go to Rockstar’s house because it’s right around the corner and I am already too sick to drive.
He thinks a little chamomile tea will fix me up, but as it turns out, I have a nasty case of some ferocious flu. I spend the whole night puking and shivering at Rockstar’s place. In his defense, he does what I thought I would never see a man in L.A. do: he cleans his tub for me so I can take a bath. During my delirium in the bath all I can think about is how my parents are going to wonder why the hell I died in some random dude’s spotlessly clean bathtub.
After my bath, I shiver on his couch for a good two hours. He gets drunk and in between telling me I need to go to the hospital, he tells me how he could have been banging Paris that night. I tell him that saying you’ve pounded Paris is like saying you’ve stayed at one of her family’s hotels. Whoopie do. And like I care. I’m currently dying. Whatever amoeba is violently attacking my system finally lets up at around 3 am and I feel like I can attempt the drive home without having to vomit out my window or poop in my pants. He tells me to leave. And I am more than happy to go.
Date 2: We meet for drinks after another series of text message fallouts and fights. Things are going pretty well. That is, until I get all agro about him wanting to “take it slow.” What the hell is happening to men? They’re getting all Sensataurus Rex on us women. He up and walks out of the bar in the middle of the heated discussion. I am left standing there with my jaw on the floor. I’m pissed. But I’m also kind of turned on. No one has ever pulled that one before.
 Rockstar's Girlfriend at The Roosevelt
Date 3: We kiss a little. Things are pretty normal despite our damaged and dysfunctional shadow sides that we seem to invoke in one another’s presence. Again we’ve had some more lame text fights that are the signature of our relationship. Again we decide to give it another shot despite all signs pointing in the direction of “Stay the fuck away from one another.” And yet again we have another lame, 13-year old, text message fallout. This time I delete him from my phone. I think he recently sent me a text. I have yet to respond. And I never will.
Maybe.
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