“d” bag in pdx

Let me tell you about “D.”

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Ladies of PDX: If this guy sounds familiar or you happen to find someone who looks or sounds like any of this – do yourself a favor, and stay away. But also, tell him I said therapy on Saturdays at 11am isnt working for him – perhaps a lobotomy might do the trick.

Not D for “dreamboat” or “dependable” — D for delusional, deceptive, small DICK, and deeply not that guy I thought he was.

When I met D, I thought I hit the jackpot. He was a unicorn in the Portland dating jungle — not a barista in a band, not trying to “find himself” via shrooms in Bend, and not in an “ethically non-monogamous” throuple with a shared houseplant. He was from Alaska. Mysterious. Kind of quiet. Looked like he chopped wood, looked amazing in a baseball hat and came from a kind family.

Introverted, muscular, hardworking, and completely obsessed with me.
Like soulmate-in-a-flannel type obsessed. Would stare at me when I wasnt looking and would count the freckles on my face like I was some type of constellation.
I thought I was the main character. Turns out, I was just in the 5th movie in a Disney franchise that completely sucks ass and has none of the same charm as the 1st.

“I’ve always wanted to be with someone like you” he said. Bro, I thought I’d give a chance to the good guy from some Alaskan village who has no real direction in life other than going to 7/11 for a pizza combo “because its cheap.”

Let’s cut the fluff:
He was a liar. A cheater. A two-timing, sweet-talking, bearded (and bald) disappointment.

He had me thinking he was different. You know how dumb you feel when you catch yourself romanticizing his quietness like it’s depth? Sis, he wasn’t mysterious — he was just hiding where he was when you were in the emergency room with a severe respiratory infection (which I came home to roses and treats for my son bought by “D” bag.)

I gave him the benefit of the doubt because he was “introverted” — turns out that just meant he didn’t like being asked why he was in a different state at 6:30 am on a random Thursday am.

Let’s be real:

• Hardworking? Sure, if sneaking around is a full-time job.
• Muscular? Yep, all that just to carry lies on his back.
• Obsessed with me? More like obsessed with the idea of me not checking his phone (which was FILLED with deceit and a history of porn that would literally make Ron Jeremy look like a nun).

And don’t get me started on the apology tour. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” “You are the best thing that ever happened to me,” “I am so lucky to be around you.”
Sir. You had schedules. You had apps. You had rehearsed lines.
You didn’t just “slip.” You planned your villain era based around being a great boyfriend and an amazing male figure around my son, when in actuality you have a fetish for lies, hair (yea…) and collecting drama.

But here’s the kicker — I still cooked for this man.
This man ate my food, laid in my bed, and had the audacity to act like a deaf mute when I asked him about truths I found out that were his lies.

Never again.

I’ll take a guy who’s got the emotional intelligence of a house cat over another fake “good guy” from the Alaskan wilderness aka most likely a halfway house. I don’t care how many logs he can chop or how many times he took out the trash or filled up my gas tank.

Relentless Reminder:
Just because he’s from Alaska doesn’t mean he’s built for survival.
Sometimes the wilderness ain’t outside — it’s the man you let in your life thinking he’s a safe place when he really is a fucktard who now has to go to the clinic because the girl he slept with is a walking infection (who also knew he was in a relationship, created a cheaters pact with him so she could ALSO cheat on her man = Vancouver, Washington ladies and gents).

xoxo. JT