It is no secret I go on my share of dates. If you asked me to sit here and recall the various men who managed to stumble through coffee, cheap to moderately priced meals, or walks in the park in 2015 we would be here for quite awhile. Unfortunately when you are a year or two older than your classmates and going to college in the middle of nowhere, you have to get creative about where you find your potential suitors (cue my Tinder series). Occasionally I will meet a nice guy at while walking to class, run into someone at the drink cooler at a frat party, bump into someone in the laundry, but for the most part online dating is where most men turn up. This lovely man was a product of all of the above.
He lived in my apartment complex last semester, is a member of a frat my sorority spends a fair amount of time in association with, attempted to date a member of my sorority family tree, and at some point we stumbled across each other’s Tinder profiles. Out of respect if I know you in real life or have seen your face and don’t absolutely despise you I will automatically swipe right. I have found it is a great way to give a guy an ego boost and see who has secretly been lurking in the shadows all along too scared to make a move.
Less then a week after a mutual rejection with the girl in my family tree he decides it’s time to message me on Tinder. We are friends on FaceBook, he has had my phone number for over 6 months, he just tried to fuck a girl that is practically my little, and he messages me on Tinder to see if I have any idea who he is. Great opening line. I wish I could say he was charming, or above average on the scale of attractiveness, or even intelligent. Unfortunately he is awkward, average-slightly below in terms of attractiveness, and thinks Donald Trump has the answers to making America great again.
A few days of awkward Tinder messages and he finally asked if he could just use my phone number (I had given it to him several months prior after he had walked me home one night). I agreed, texted the girl in my family tree, and made the decision to see where things ended up. After a few days of texting at the start of winter break I was getting bored of my vacant college town and agreed to let him come over. He arrived at 10pm, shortly after I had arrived home and showered from my nightly trip to the gym. I opened the door to my apartment to him standing on my front porch, fairly well dressed, and holding a bottle of whiskey.
Half way through the bottle the conversation moved from small talk to politics. Political debates turned into smoking cigarettes on my front porch where he decided to listen to my liberal point of view, agree with everything I said, and then tell me he believed Donald Trump was the only man alive capable of mending the economy. Sadly I like whiskey which resulted in my entertaining his idiocracy until we had almost finished the bottle. Around 3am however I was beginning to get tired. The remaining alcohol had caused him to transition the conversation from politics into prying questions about my past.
Somewhere along the line, likely in part from a sister and in part from my reaction to various stories about my past he picked up on my PTSD. The events which caused me to develop PTSD are slowly becoming something I will open up about, however a strange slightly tipsy man holding a menthol cigarette on my front porch at 3:30am is not the person I wish to open up to. My story is just as much a learning experience for the people I tell it to as it was for me and under the right circumstances sharing it has become tolerable. However if I am not showing any signs of distress, a quick way to change that is to be a strange man I hardly know trying to pry for details. As my annoyance began to rise he became insistent on trying to help me cope with the horrors of my past (something I definitely didn’t need to do at that moment and something I really didn’t want him helping with).
The longer the conversation progressed the more I wanted him to leave and the more my urge for sleep was starting to show through. Unfortunately all of my attempts to remove the tipsy frat boy from my apartment were resulting in him trying to tell me stories about his depressing childhood, family members who had experienced trauma similar to my own, and lingering hugs.
Not wanting to ruin relations with a frat my sorority was already starting to get rocky with while simultaneously wanting to get as far away from him as possible I did the most rational thing I could think of at 4am. I went into my bedroom, grabbed the pillow and the blanket off my bed, picked up my keys from the hook by the door, and while he was outside smoking cigarette number 4 or 5 I stepped onto the porch and locked the door to my apartment blanket, pillow, and keys in hand. He looked confused and I explained I was getting tired and wanted to go find a bed. He mentioned the one that clearly existed in the apartment I live in by myself and I cast off the excuse of not wanting my PTSD to interfere with my sleep.
After explaining I have a tendency of crashing on the couch at a friend’s apartment based on the comfort provided by the shotgun and 3 grown men to defend me were some hypothetical monster from my past to appear I think he got the hint. He followed me to my car and tried to convince me staying and talking about my feelings would make me feel better. I got in my car and drove away while he walked back and sat on my porch to smoke another cigarette at 4am. Moral of the story, even if you like whiskey you should kick the Donald Trump supporter out of your apartment on the first infraction or you will be sneaking into a friends apartment to sleep on the floor fully clothed at 4am on a Sunday morning.