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Contributed by Laura Ochoa
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Pat Benetar claimed love is a battlefield. Well Pat, I've never been in
battle, but I did grow up in Las Vegas; and I can say confidently that
love is more like a casino. Think about it-- what is the dating world
if not an amalgamation of game playing? There are literally dating
rulebooks. There are unspoken rules and restrictions on who should call
whom, how soon, and how often. You meet someone you like, and it starts
out all dreamy neon lights, and ends with you facedown in your 99 cent
shrimp cocktail wishing you hadn't bet it all on one hand—or, rather,
one person.
I learned this the hard way, as most people do, from what we'll call an
Emotional Fuckwit. This term borrowed from author Helen Fielding is
ultimately a person who strings you along, causing you to think they
have serious feelings for you, and then you end up with nothing to show
for it except maybe some cheesy souvenirs (or in extreme cases, credit
card debt).
Your relationship with an Emotional Fuckwit is like playing slots: you
put a lot into it, and get nothing in return. The thing about the
Emotional Fuckwit is it's NOT you—it really is them. They give you hint
after hint, clue after clue that they like you, then months later you
find out they like someone else. At this point you've put a lot into
it, with no pay-off.
My Emotional Fuckwit was Sean, the artsy musician type. There was
something about Sean's self-assuredness and talent that became my own
gambling addiction—something I couldn't stop no matter how much it cost
me. My feelings for Sean were not unfounded; they were based largely on
reciprocal flirting. He'd go out of his way to see or talk to me. He'd
call to “stop by,” or suggest I come over. Our conversations lasted for
hours. He'd ask me to go to a movie or lunch. The lines between friends
and more-than-friends were undoubtedly blurred, and his ambiguous
comments only fueled my thinking that he liked me.
I was not delusional; Sean showed interest. I thought comparing his
actions to those of my other male friends would help me gauge his
feelings for me—and comparatively, Sean was much more interested,
observant, and flirty. Yet nothing ever came of it—all the cards were
on the table, but Sean was never willing to ante-up. I was simply his
first course in an all-you-can-emotionally-dick-over buffet…something
to half-heartedly devour before moving on.
The point is everyone has a Sean. Everyone has encountered the
Emotional Fuckwit and the inevitable game playing that comes with him
or her. But there comes a point when you realize playing games really
should be left in a casino. It's important to remember—as every Vegas
High Roller knows—that some people are worth the gamble, while others
deserve the royal flush.
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