Do Not Send This Text

Listen, I want you to truly appreciate my sustained effort to pretend to be a reasonable human being. I’ve gone days without texting you, multiple days without texting you, three whole days without texting you. The cumulative willpower illustrated by this should leave your mind utterly boggled, exceedingly boggled. You should be thinking, ‘What an astounding display of confidence. He must be comfortable wearing pink shirts and aviator sunglasses. I’m so boggled right now.’ For all you know, during this last three days, I’ve not once even considered texting you. Perhaps I lay awake in bed, not cradling my cell phone, not typing emotionally revealing (e.g. terrifying) texts over and over and then moving them into the drafts folder without sending them. Perhaps I only lay in bed and think, ‘Gosh, I shouldn’t have had so much coffee before bed.’ Perhaps I don’t think to myself, ‘I’m not receiving what I need from the universe, I’m not receiving what I need from the universe,’ over and over like the mantra of a manic depressive. It would be reasonable for you to assume at this point that I have no interest in poetry, go outside on a regular basis, exercise, eat vegetables, have an aversion to cats, and have never heard of Of Montreal or Architecture in Helsinki. For sure, I’m a viable candidate for mouth kissing.

In the interest of full disclosure, you should know: in the past, I would characterize my behavior as “harassing,” “smothering,” or “haunting” girls. I would frequently text, “What are you doing?” probing for access points to their lives. My male friends would shake their heads in disappointment, and say, “Brad… don’t…” as I typed into my phone. Do you see now the herculean effort I have expended to not text you, to act in a reasonable non-threatening way? Will you not give me credit for fundamentally transforming myself into a slightly more respectable person? I am a shining radiant beacon of resilience like one of those holy men in India who keep their arms raised for twenty years, a heroin addict in the throes of withdrawal, or a civil rights protestor in the 60’s. I traverse a desert for days and days while holding a glass of water, and though I may die of thirst, I shall not drink.

In my mind, I picture us lying on the couch at night, watching BBC’s Sherlock on my computer, making out every few minutes. This is the final destination. This is point C, and we are stuck in point A due to your inability to text me something conclusively affectionate. You dumb idiot. If, according to the laws of quantum mechanics, every possibility creates another universe, I’m steering myself toward the universe where this can occur — the watching of BBC’s Sherlock while lying on the couch together. Like Nicholas Cage in Next, I’m manipulating events in a way I perceive will lead us to this future. Oh, the mental strain! The gargantuan force of will to drag my miserable universe off its path toward lonely oblivion and onto a path to: the couch, BBC’s Sherlock, making out, the night, you.

This is a long text. To you, I’m sure, it seems to have come out of nowhere, seeing as we’ve only seen each other twice, and, during that time, exchanged only a handful of sentences. It seems like I’m spewing forth some kind of mad rant, typing myself deeper and deeper into a dark pit of obsession. That’s not important. Don’t think about that. If you think about it, you will be drawn into a chain of reasoning, and reason, my dear, is the death of love. Did I say love? That was just a figure of speech. Unless you weren’t alarmed, in which case, I’m deadly serious. And by “deadly,” I mean “innocuously.” Please don’t call the police.

You never told me your last name. You gave me your phone number, but not your last name — how silly. Fortunately, I happened to be casually scrutinizing the Facebook pages of friends we might have in common, nonchalantly searching through their lists of friends, dispassionately examining the page of every girl with your first name, and I somehow stumbled upon your Facebook page. I happened to observe that you’re single, and as it so happens I’m single, and, in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s Valentine’s Day. Seems like the hand of fate to me. Seems like golden handcuffs of destiny linking us together and tossing the key down a sewer grate. Just kidding! But seriously, it sure seems like a fortuitous confluence of events, and by the way, did you notice I use a lot of polysyllabic words? Also, I’m handsome.

I would like to say I’m exempt from that cliché melancholy endured by (tragically common) single males on Valentine’s Day, but alas, I shall contribute a few drops to the world’s forthcoming collective swimming pool of tears. I had hoped your response to my text, “LOL the monkies in Rise of the Planet of the Apes were hilarous!” would be quicker, so that I might avoid this, so that we might transition to the couch, BBC’s Sherlock, etc. in time for Valentine’s Day. However, your phone must have broken or a family member died or you suffered a catastrophic head injury. If not, you should know you’re blowing it right now. You’re blowing our life together with your inability to respond to texts in a timely manner. I’m being so reasonable, and you — you’re elongating the period of loneliness prior to our happy life together with your lack of response. You have a choice between happiness and loneliness, and you are making the wrong choice for reasons that don’t matter (only seen me twice, don’t know me, aren’t attracted).

I wish my phone plan including unlimited texting because this one’s going to be expensive.

Hey, you know what? I’m joking. This whole text is a satire of guys who would send a text like this, so you shouldn’t freak out because I’m just being facetious. I’m being hilarious. LOL. ROTFL. LSHITU. Haha. Man, I’ll bet I really fooled you. Unless, of course, you want to spend Valentine’s Day with me, in which case, I’m deadly serious. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

About the author

Brad Pike

More From Thought Catalog