Partners-N-Crime and PB&J

There are two main kinds of PB&J. The first, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Jameson. The second, that delicious sandwich. Both types of PB&J can fall anywhere within the range of “YESSSS! This is ahhhmaazing!!!” to “Just fucking shoot me.” The latter part of 2016 was asphyxiated by PB&J.

And, while usually names are omitted from the lovely Bananas, it is a little hard to do with this one because I’m talking about Jameson (but not that whiskey shot that may or may not kill me one day) – I’m talking about a human.

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that 2016 was a particularly low point in Andrea-land. A few weeks ago I was on the phone with my mother and I said something like, “Ugh… October was really really fucking hard.” And my mom said without malice (but a tinge of irony), “Just October?” BITCH. Okay, not a bitch. But really, though. I know that my life is full of ups and downs. Maybe it is because I’m so wildly passionate? I found a great image to depict my life:

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I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like the above image. Totally and completely unique.

Anyway, in August I reconnected with an old friend who used to run in the same party circle as me. We’ve known each other ten years and (after my first spout of shit talking) it was nice to hang out. He’s a bit of an enabler but also incredibly smart. Smart and likes to party. AKA Trouble.

Additionally, for a long time I was searching for (what I thought was) a Nelly song – “Hot Boys,” but that is a different thing. What I really wanted was this song:

So I have to thank him for solving that mystery. (Also, I guess thanks for the threesome. I dig it.)

But, back to the main point. My messed-up-as-fuck almost attorney “friend” who really and truly sucks.

I thought I could help him. Get his shit together. Finish law school. Sometimes I am better at giving a fuck about other people than myself. If you ask, I’m happy to help. But, despite the time spent together (he was homeless, I let him stay with me a few times), nothing ever moved forward. It was always someone’s fault – just definitely not his. It was some reason outside of his control that he didn’t have a job. (Not that he was drunk, late and maybe stealing.) Not his fault that he couldn’t finish his thesis. Not his fault that he has (another) child that he can’t afford.

Finally (we are talking about not that long of a time), I was over it. I didn’t want free drugs and I didn’t want (probably) stolen booze without mixers. I had no interest in staying up past 9 or 10 p.m. and I can’t stand falling asleep to TV. *

*For the record: This is deal breaker territory. I suffered through it with Hot Chef but not again and certainly not when you are rolling in drunk and staying for free in my bed and you are going to drive me crazy by drinking and smoking (helllo, I asked you to go outside a gazillion times with that cigarette!) and watching shit on my laptop. Woof.

I really didn’t think he should give up his dream. In every success, there are casualties along the way. I was willing, if he put out any effort, to potentially be one. But, we’d slept together. >>I’m human!!!<< And it made things messy because he is the definition of Bad News Bears and he totally fell for me. But, he wanted to keep it a “secret” because “what would people think?”

I didn’t keep it a secret, but I didn’t talk about it. It only happened a few times and I consistently and firmly told him that I was not interested in dating him and had no romantic feelings whatsoever. It just happened that he was party to a situation that I couldn’t immediately surgically remove from my life so it seemed easier to just let it ride.

Jameson is in the music industry (unemployed) and thought that because I like this song, I was obviously trying to send him a message through the lyrics. He clearly doesn’t read my blog. Let me summarize: a) I like the song and b) I actually don’t always listen to the lyrics of pop songs that much and c) 5 years of Sometimes Boyfriend might connect him to that song now that I am implored to pay more attention to the lyrics but *certainly* not crazy dude.

So, a few messy phone calls later… (him to my voicemail) many, many mean texts. (As my bestie, she got some fucked up shit typed on little phone keys too…) Horrific actually. Followed by me blocking his number… (I thought messages from a blocked number just go to LaLa Land, but I have 5 messages from his 985 # and I refuse to listen.)  and a bit of violence later, I was cleaning up my trashed apartment (he dumped multiple bottles of water on my bed because since I didn’t want to spend the night with him, he was *sure* I was inviting someone else over and proceeded to make a mess of my bed as a precautionary measure.) including flipping over the coffee table and just making a giant mess.

I wasn’t there for that – I left (because he wouldn’t) and then – he finally quit it.

He also posted this on my Facebook later:

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^ Don’t know why I was Googling “Billy Crudup” and the search for “rehab” came from a looking at the multitude of bottles of Taaka bottles and the disaster that Jmo made when he broke into my apartment and threw a bunch of shit around.

** also, I would say that the very, very public Facebook page made all of this OFFICIALLY NOT A FUCKING SECRET. (And potentially a cause for concern…)

He tried to call me for awhile from other numbers but, since he never listened to anything I said, did not attempt between the hours when I am awake. Seriously. Get out of bed before 3 p.m. (or don’t!) but if you are crashing at my place because you can’t get your shit together and I go workout at 7am, at least when you *finally* leave my house around 4, take the trash down. It’s your mess anyway. Also, cool it on the nasty text messages to me. Definitely don’t nasty text my best friend. And mostly, stay the fuck away.

BTW, I’m moving. Let’s all say goodbye to my apartment for the past 5 years. It wreaks of the past anyway.

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Andrea

I have feelings, lots of them. I love to write, I love to party, and I probably have more fun than you do. Follow my blog to have all the fun with me.

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