I don’t have an abundance of unique skills. I think I can write decently well, I am an okay public speaker, and I once beat the first level of Super Mario Brothers in less than thirty seconds.
But the one skill I mastered, I mean, that I truly have DOWN is ghosting. You know that cute little thing where little twerps just up and vanish on you, never ever to return? Yeah, that’s me; and while I might be LOLing up about it in this article, it’s something I’m really not proud of.
We all hate ghosters, right? None of us can tolerate these carefree, reckless people who drift into our lives, pique our interest, and then vanish into the realms of god-only-knows-where without even a “g2g.” I hate them too. But I am also one of them.
And this is how it happens: First, I decide that I want a relationship. I want something real. I want someone to come over and visit me and build blanket forts that we wrap ourselves up in when they fail. I want someone who will reach their arms around me, cuddle me, tell me that I’m awesome. I want someone to make fun of me relentlessly, cook meals with me, hold my hand while at the mall, and be my obligatory +1 for those awkward high school reunion parties where everyone is just bragging about how cool their lives are. And so I put myself out there. I re-install Tinder, I talk to the skinny jean-wearing baristas with the nose piercings, and I flirt with classmates who “yasssssss” at Beyoncé’s performance at the Super Bowl.
And so then I get matches. People interested in me?! OMG, my dream is about to come true ya’ll. Blanket forts and burnt cookies and intimacy here I come!!! Except, wait, no, I have to find a way to ruin this.
So, in actuality, one of two things happen: either they ghost, or I ghost.
Why? Serial ghosters are truly just super insecure people.
Whenever someone sticks around and keeps talking to me, my first thought is: “What is wrong with this person??? Don’t they understand I SUCK? I’m boring, I’m anxious, I’m bad in bed (probably).” If you are attracted to me, treat me kindly, or even TALK to me, huge GIGANTIC red flags are raised. It’s like the equivalent of a normal person going on a first date and hearing: “Oh yeah, I used to be a serial killer, but I haven’t gone on a spree for a few years.” You’d run out of there immediately. And so do I.
And so I’m not saying you shouldn’t hate me. Hate me; hate all of us. But remember that we hate ourselves, too.
We hate ourselves when we hang around our friends with partners, and how they ACCEPT each other for their shortcomings and flaws.
We hate ourselves every time we ignore one of your texts, because we KNOW deep down that we are shutting another door to happiness. We know.
We hate ourselves when we finally uninstall Tinder, finally stop flirting with anonymous baristas, finally stop. Because if we ghosters know anything, it’s that we will never let ourselves be happy, and maybe — at least until the next time we try — we should stop making other people unhappy.
We hate ourselves for ghosting on you. We hate ourselves for ghosting on our dreams. We hate ourselves for ghosting on ourselves.