“Hypocrites always want
to play innocent
Always want to take it
to the full out extent
Always want to make it
seem like good intent
Never want to face it when
it’s time for punishment
I know you don’t want
to hear my opinion
But there come many paths
and you must choose one
And if you don’t change
then the rain soon come
See you might win some,
but you just lost one”
Umm…whose friend is this? (Warning: rant to follow. Colorful language may ensue.)
That’s actually a rhetorical question; I already know at least a dozen of his friends, since, according to FB, we have them in common. Not that that gave him any pause before sending this message—assuming he even bothered to notice. After all, what kind of raging, reckless, egomaniacal idiot would say something this disrespectful to a woman he’s not only never met, but with whom he shares a significant number of mutual friends?
Clearly, someone who either has zero f*cks to give…or is logic-deficient in some fundamental way.
Honestly, it took me over a week to decide how I wanted to address this, because blocking his punk ass didn’t feel like enough. I swear, I went through some Kübler-Ross-style stages with this one (http://grief.com/the-five-stages-of-grief/); first, there was the initial shock of the insult, followed by sheer bewilderment. Maybe I’d misinterpreted?
Then, the anger crept in. I was fully ready to let Petty LaBelle officially enter the building, kick off her shoes and sing down this fool for his dear life, sweet potato pie in hand (which I’d then mush in his smug face)…
Because respect and propriety clearly didn’t matter to him, so…why should they matter to me?
Next, I strongly considered inboxing a screenshot of his message to the closest of our mutual friends with a plea to “come and get your boy.”
(No, really: please come get this jackass. Call Tyrone, or whoever—shout-out to Erykah Badu—and tell him come on and get this sh*t right here out of my inbox, because…NO.)
But my own sense of logic and propriety—and a few cooler-headed girlfriends—convinced me that wasn’t my best tactic, either; at the very least because I not only like, but deeply respect many of those aforementioned mutual friends (ironically, most of whom are women). Why should they be individually subjected to this particular brand of crazy? And, what the hell are they supposed to do about it, anyway?
Especially when I have a much broader platform upon which to express this particular grievance? *cue diabolical grin*
Now, if you’ve been following me for any period of time, you know that I have a specific aversion to dating anyone I meet online that I have more than three friends in common with. I have my reasons: chief among them that there seem to be no secrets among mutual friends, and therefore, private business often becomes public.
So, I suppose I’m partly to blame for ignoring my usual rules (clearly, a horrible idea) and assuming that a man with whom I had so many illustrious people in common might actually be worth a damn. But this particular scenario also presents an entirely new set of issues inherent in sharing social contacts, since this is a person who clearly needs…people.
Because, in an era where we not only are able to online shop for partners, but instantly identify mutual friends and interests—thus ostensibly skipping several moves ahead in the “getting-to-know-you” game—does one really not consider that any untoward behavior might be risky, and could potentially be revealed to one’s social circle? (Especially if you’re also arrogant/careless/dumb enough to use the same profile pic in all of your dating and professional profiles?)
In the absence of any damned decorum, one could at least use some common sense.
It’s so idiotic that I could laugh…except now that I’ve moved out of sheer disgust and vengeance mode, I’m left with something resembling pity, since this is obviously an otherwise successful dude who is lacking in support (and possibly home training, role models, and basic regard for women) and, I’m assuming, someone to reliably call him on his complete and utter bullsh*t.
For instance: I counted at least six accomplished, incredible women among our mutual contacts. I’d venture a guess that if they’re still connected—at least, via social media—he’s never pulled this crap with any of them. And yet, are none of them friendly enough with this dude to at least encourage him to muster a modicum of respect for the opposite sex? Or is he a misogynist on the low?
Because that’s what this is really about: respect. The kind of respect that is all too often absent when people get to hide behind a keyboard instead of being forced to engage with someone in person. So, since I’m choosing not to involve our mutual contacts, perhaps I should address him directly. With a little luck, this post will reach him. If not, let’s consider it a public service announcement, or at least, an open letter:
I get it, Dude. You don’t know me, so why should you care? I’m online; you’re online…we both know what we’re here for, so let’s just cut to the chase, right? Plus, it’s a numbers game; just because I’m not responsive doesn’t mean the next girl won’t be. Though I’ve gotta tell you, I’m having a hard time imagining you getting laid much, with that bedside manner. We weren’t even on Tinder, for chrissakes. Not that that would make it okay.
But, playing Devil’s Advocate: Can’t a man just roll the dice and say what he wants, without it being a big deal?
Sure. In fact, let’s be abundantly clear: Believe it or not, I like sex, too. I don’t mind well-phrased innuendo, and I don’t even have a problem with porn, on the whole. Granted, I’ve never met you, so your approach was…ambitious, to say the least. But—assuming that you’re even actually single—if your ultimate objective was to get in my pants, I can assure you there were several possible routes to get there…
However, none of them involved you coming at me like this.
You know why? Because of all the things about your approach that turned me entirely OFF, it’s your stupidity that is the worst of them. I see you: suited up, arms folded across your power tie, head high—seemingly master of your domain—wherever that is down there on Wall Street. You obviously possess some smarts, or at least, the appearance of some. Tell me: Is it your pedigree, your income or your avoidance of the prison industrial complex that makes you feel so above it all—including common courtesy?
Let’s ignore the fact that I have a pedigree of my own. That’s irrelevant, for our current purposes. Let’s talk instead about networking, since I’m sure you’ve done a fair amount of it, to arrive at your seemingly lofty perch:
Do you ever marvel at what a small world New York City really is? I know I do. In fact, I was only receptive to communicating with you because we had so many familiar faces in common. Hate to break it to you, but it wasn’t your looks, your posture, or your profile (none of which were particularly memorable, to tell the truth); it was the presence of your—our—friends and colleagues. #SorryNotSorry
And it is taking every ounce of restraint I have to keep from calling on them to come and gather your ass, because Honey—can I call you “Honey”?—you need people. In fact, you need an entire posse to wrangle your stuck-on-stupid self into some semblance of a gentleman with some regard for his reputation. Because sooner or later, you’re going to try this with someone else; someone far more dangerous than I.
So, now might be a really good time to check yourself before you wreck yourself, Sir. (Shout-out to Ice Cube.)
No, you don’t know me, and have ensured that you never will. But, if/when we cross paths—and I’m sure we will, in this small town we both occupy—trust that I’ll be mustering every bit of my etiquette and self-respect to not call you out to your face. Disrespectfully. In public. In front of your—possibly our—friends and associates.
Because I’m a lady, damn it.