Dategirl

Two years ago, I dumped my fat-assed, pot-smoking, emotionally retarded boyfriend and packed myself out the door. Despite the breakup, we maintained an acquaintance for a while; that is, until he got himself a new sweetie, packed his own shit up and moved to places unknown.

Okay, so I admit I might have been a little too neighborly with him during those critical "just dumped" months, but we both had ruffled nerves and some serious bills to sort out. But when he left, he did not give me any info regarding his whereabouts, just an email outlining what he still owed me monetarily and a vague promise to pay sometime after his 2002 tax return came back.

I wasn’t satisfied with that reassurance. After going to his family and friends, I finally got a phone number and had a quick, nasty conversation with the girlfriend. I was warned (in no vague terms) to never, ever call that number again. He’d pay me when he’d pay me.

Now it’s later, and I still haven’t seen any money. I want to take this guy to court, and I have bounteous legal grounds. But he’s also getting married to said sweetie who, in all fairness, didn’t do anything to bring a pox down on her house. I feel incredibly uneasy being so aggressive at such a bad time, and about that emotional statute of limitations that says if I’d really meant it, I would’ve done something by now. And yet…

I’m ambivalent, in the correct hair-tearing, gut-wrenching, Freud-approved meaning of the word. Dategirl, what do I do? Suck it up? Or kick his lily-livered shit down the block?

–Deliberating Libra

There is a price to be paid for dating losers. In my case, it was a few hundred bucks total, spread over two ne’er-do-wells. Both times I tried like hell to get them to act like upstanding citizens and honor their debts, and both times I was met at the door with the resounding sound of silence.

But really–they were mooks when I dated them; what would make me (or you) think they’d suddenly morph into men once given the heave-ho? If anything they’d have even less motivation once the gravy train left the station. After all, now they have to pay for their own beer! The horror!

Like you, I tried phone calls, public confrontations and pestering, but after a while I gave up and accepted that the $300 or $400 was a sort of dum-dum tax. Or payment for a class I hadn’t known I was taking, called "Who Not to Date." (A course I’m now well-equipped to teach. Are you listening, Learning Annex?)

You don’t say as much, but you’re probably also cranky that he’s found some willing bimbo to marry while I’m guessing you’re still single. We always imagine that these jackasses suddenly transform themselves once they move on. Newsflash: They don’t. All that’s changed is that he’s now some other broad’s problem. Good riddance.

Unless we’re talking an amount that you absolutely cannot afford to lose, I’d let it go. If you absolutely positively need to get in one last dig (an impulse I shamefacedly cop to understanding), you could always send the happy couple a wedding "gift" in the form of calligraphied scroll absolving them of the debt. If nothing else, it’ll certainly give them something to talk about on their honeymoon. A honeymoon I venture to guess will be charged to her credit card.

I met this guy way back when I was a freshman in college. We got in touch recently and went for drinks. He’s 37, so a tad older than I. (I’m 22.) Anyway, one thing led to another, and I didn’t end up going home.

So here I am, totally doing the walk of shame–walking from Le Parker Meridien to the office with my tail between my legs.

The thing is, unlike my other one- night-stand-type deals, I feel amazingly guilty about this one. I think it’s because I actually kinda sorta like him. Not like I wanted to date him, kind of like, "God I wish he liked me and would respect me but now he obviously doesn’t because I fucked him on what was our first date!"

Anyway, later that morning he shot me off a smartass email. I replied, joking around about the walk of shame. And he’s all like, "That would imply that you regretted what we did–did you?" and I was all like, "No, I’m a big girl now, totally know that there are consequences to my actions. No regrets."

I asked him if he had regretted it, and he’s like "Yeah, I kind of do regret when I move too fast."

So being the smart whippersnapper that I am, I’m all like, "All you wanted was a 22-year-old piece of ass, and that’s what you got… What’s to regret?"

Umm yeah, and that’s when he never responded.

He did send me an email yesterday (only one vs. our normal exchange of about 20 billion while bored at our respective desks) totally ignoring what I had said, and giving me the synopsis of his weekend.

Then last night, while I’m online, he IMs me, and when I ask him how he is, he’s all like "horny as hell."

I just don’t get it. I’m thinking he wants a fuck buddy. And I actually am okay with that, if that’s what he wants. What do I want? Easy answer: David Duchovny. But I assume we all have to settle in life.

I obviously don’t want to settle down, ’cause there’s no reason for it. I’m 22, and living in New York, not Arkansas. But I would like to know that I’m valued as more than an interactive blow-up doll. Did I blow it?

–Perplexed

I’m all like, 37 is way too old for you, honey. This geezer is seconds away from sprouting ear hair and hemorrhoids–you should be with someone who’s as young and cute as you are. That he’s dogging someone he met when she was 18 indicates to me that you’re dealing with an emotional retard. If it’s any comfort, you’ll be too old for him by the time you hit 25.

Write [dategirl@nypress.com](mailto:dategirl@nypress.com) or Dategirl, c/o New York Press, 333 7th Ave., 14th fl., New York, NY 10001.