Date or Red Flag

Attempting to date for me was like collecting an assortment of crazies. Here it is 2013 and I am still a magnet for them. It was about eleven at night when I got a message on Facebook. It read, “Hey buddy.” I was puzzled as to why she was contacting me. I knew her. She was a manager at one of the places I worked. I wouldn’t have answered but she seemed stable enough, so I asked the deadly question, “How are you doing?”

She embarked on a tirade of misfortune. She had cancer, her mother was dying of cancer, her boyfriend dumped her four days earlier. I was taken aback. What the hell? I had never really spoken to her at length before, but I thought maybe she was just having a bad month. She told me where she lived and it was a block or so from my apartment, so I suggested that we should go for a walk so she could vent. I know, I know. It’s the nice-itis coming to the surface again. Anyway, I gave her my phone number and she called. That was when the conversation turned strange. She asked me if I saw her model pictures, and, from that she started talking about her breast size. Then she told me how many men she’d slept with; she had slept with twenty but that did not make her a whore. By this time I was already walking to her apartment or I would have faked a cough and stayed home. Then out of the blue she told me she was broke. I thought OK, what does that have to do with me? She babbled on some more about her problems for a few minutes. Again, out of the blue she suggested that we should go to a bar. I remember thinking, who the hell is going to pay for this? I was already outside her apartment, so no turning back. She continued to tell me that her brother died of a drug over dose three weeks earlier and her sister was in rehab. I was asking myself what the hell I had gotten myself into. She stepped out of her apartment. She was pretty; no more than four feet nine inches tall, dark eyes and long, dark hair and yes, she was drunk. So here I was, a seven foot black man, walking down the street with a pint size drunk white woman. We got to the bar and no sooner I was in there than a friend of mine took me outside,

Bro, that girl is crazy as shit,” he said. I told him I figured she was.

No bro, you don’t understand. Last week she told us that she was a CIA agent and she was serious too. ”

I thought, confirmation; I was with a walking Looney lady. I went back in, bought one drink and started trying to find ways to get out of this. She told me that her boyfriend and his father had locked her in their basement so she would not leave him. It was then I suggested that we go outside because I could not hear her. The second we stepped outside, she started paying attention to some kid and totally ignoring me. The young man was apprehensive; he kept looking at me to make sure I would not kick his ass for talking to my woman. Me, I was slowly backing up. I got the chance and took it and said I was going back inside to talk to my friend. While in there, I saw the young man looking at me because he realized why I left. Then all of a sudden a beat up old truck pulled up and she walked over to it and to my surprise jumped in and took off. I promise you, you have never seen a seven footer run so fast in your life. I got home, turned off my phone and shut off my computer. There is no way I wanted her to contact me ever again. 

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