Carrie – For the first time in a really long time, when I stepped out of the shower that morning, an overwhelming sensation of gratitude washed over me. Perhaps I had been in a particularly good mood having finished my summer courses and finally enjoying what was left of my summer. Maybe it was the reminiscent effect of some weed I’d had the night before. Whatever the case, I was appreciative of the simple things: the sweet aroma of my shampoo, the soft towel grazing against freshly cleaned skin, and the sensation of my plush memory-foam bath mat under my foot as I gingerly step out of the shower.
Then in some weird sort of memory association, I remembered the history of said bath-mat. It wasn’t particularly sentimental, being a cheap Costco purchase two years ago. However, I recall enthusiastically snapping videos of the memory foam in action to Mr. Puppy Love who often experienced my obsession with all-things-fuzzy. The mat has also gotten me through darker moments: supporting me (and friends) as we hung around the toilet the morning after a night of binge drinking and comforting me when I pathetically cried after Mr. Mindfuckboy left my house that fateful winter night.
If you haven’t read up on my saga with Mr. Mindfuckboy, I’ll spare you your life and give you the Sparks notes here: this guy’s favourite movie is The Notebook. If that wasn’t indication enough (as I was too infatuated to see at the time), it is exactly the type of tortured romance he’s looking for in his life. He wanted me to be his Allie, the girl he couldn’t be with right away, but she was his soul mate and they’d eventually end up together when the time was ‘right’. Too bad the ‘right’ time in the movie was also the most-complicated scenario/worst-timing right when she was happy and about to get married. But that was the love he wanted. Mr. Mindfuckboy made everything fifteen times more complicated than it should have been. When I gave him the opportunity to be with me, he chose to cower, ignoring my phone calls but writing me a fucking poem about how I’m better off without him. Later that evening, I sent him a ‘break-up’ text telling him to never contact me again and delete me from his life.
So lo and behold my dismay when, I kid you not, TWELVE MONTHS LATER (that’s a whole year later ladies and gents) I get hit up with a follow on Instagram from Mr. Mindfuckboy, who I will now term Mr. (Slide Into My) DM.
As far as I’m concerned, “delete me from your life” included Instagram but I digress. Obviously, with his track record of impeccable timing, I spend two hours of my evening the night before my exam analyzing his follow with clammy palms and a racing heart instead of studying for the effect of shifting budget lines on isocost curves. Mr. DM always made me feel as if I should be honoured he’d give me his time of day and it was always the timing that worked best for his life. However, my ‘feeling special’ came at the expense of my self-confidence and mental stability so I was often reduced to a frenzied, insecure mess whenever he decided to grace me with his presence.
Having come to this realization after much, much sleepover-psycho-analysis with my gal pals, I decided to be cautious with my next move. The first time he tried to rekindle things, he added me on Facebook and left the next step to me. With the ball in my court, and being the reactive and impatient person I am, I lashed out to him on Facebook messenger and let him weasel his way back into my life. It took three months of his vague commitments and general dramatics for me to throw in the towel. This time around with his Instagram follow, I decided to act exactly the opposite of what I would normally do: nothing.
My fingers were itching and I checked my phone daily for updates. And alas, it took three days before he, true to his name, Slid Into My DMs. I figured he was probably following me because come September, Miss Carrie Bradshaw will no longer be a 6ix chick and be moving to a smaller, less hip O-town. Conveniently, it is the same city that Mr. DM lives in.
His thought process was probably along the lines of “oh, she’s going to be moving here for school” when I posted a picture in April but he probably rationalized that “maybe I shouldn’t follow her until around… end of July, so we have one month to rekindle things before she moves and could be an easy lay.” And to be honest, I actually contemplated it. He had a great body, smoldering blue eyes and I was going to be moving to a new city with less of my support network. It might have been nice to have a friend in a new city, I reasoned.
Nevertheless, in the infamous words of Yo Gotti, we all know it goes “Down In the DM” or the “Direct Message” for my less 6ix savvy friends. It just took his one message for me to mentally throw-up and throw-out the chance of recycling someone from my little black book. He wrote, “I think I deserve a follow back do I not?”
No sir, you do not.
I allowed the message so he could see I saw it. Later that evening, he unfollowed me and slunk back into his dark hole. He had done a real number on me, that’s for sure, but he was done having control over my life. I blocked him with the knowledge that sometimes, some things are better laid to rest.
More upset about the loss of a follower than a loss of an asshole from my life. But now I’ve linked “Down in The DM” in my Instagram bio – just to deter any future f*ckboys.