A long, long time ago, I was living in the city. I was a much less glamorous Carrie Bradshaw without so many friends. Something was missing from my life. I always thought it was love from someone else. It never was.
The missing thing was fulfillment, self-love and knowledge of self-worth. It’s easier to say that I needed to love myself than to actually do it. They don’t sell confidence at the store.
The path that I chose was usually wrong. I went with the popular vote instead of my instinct.
There was this guy. There’s always a guy, right?
He had long hair and fairly attractive. He seemed smart. My instinct said that he was a condescending asshole. Why don’t I ever listen to myself? I’m usually right so why not listen.
We made a date. He wanted to show me his art.
He was much more drunk than I realized. We were already on the highway before I noticed that he was totally lit. It was the first time that night that I thought that I was possibly going to die.
There was kissing. And then he bit me. I was freaked out. Biting is not my thing. Neither is hair-pulling. I couldn’t believe that he freaking bit me. No one has ever shut down their friendliness faster than me at that moment. I can’t remember if he called me a bitch or not. Possibly.
Luckily, he was so drunk that he passed out within a few minutes.
Yet, I was stuck there – late at night, without a car, in a big city. It was the second time that I thought I could be in trouble. I had to walk to the main street in the dark. There really weren’t too many lights.
I had to either call someone to pick me up or walk to a friends house. I wished that I had more friends to call.
Someone answered their phone and saved my ass. I was lucky. Unbelievably lucky. It could have been so much worse
He did show me his art. I’m not an art critic but the magazine collage of “The Last Supper” was not impressive.
So the lesson for today: Trust your instinct.