Dating at Damn Near 50

Mr. Free Air: He Had a Free Car, Free Food, Free Love—and Lost His Shit Over Free Air

Welcome back to Dating at Damn Near 50: The Dating Chronicles, where apparently I don't even have to use Facebook Dating to find material.

Sometimes the bullshit has known me since elementary school.

Yes.

ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.

Today's contestant isn't some random man who swiped right on Facebook Dating and lost his fucking mind within 72 hours.

Oh, no.

I had HISTORY with this motherfucker.

Not romantic history.

Actual history.

School pictures and cafeteria-tray history.

This man had been around since we were kids.

I met him in elementary school.

Then somehow we ended up at the same junior high.

Then the same high school.

Every time I changed schools, this motherfucker apparently received a copy of my transfer paperwork.

There he was.

Again.

And again.

And again.

We never dated.

I never had some huge crush on him.

There was no secret childhood love story.

He was just cool.

Somebody I'd known forever.

Then life happened.

We grew up.

Went our separate ways.

Lost contact.

Years passed.

And one day I'm at my sister's house.

Guess who the fuck is there?

HIM.

With my brother.

I'm looking at him.

Looking at my brother.

Looking back at him.

How the fuck do YOU know MY brother?

Apparently sometime during all those years we'd lost contact, he and my brother had become friends.

And for some reason, that made me trust him even more.

Because in my mind, I'm thinking:

Oh, this motherfucker definitely can't do me wrong.

He knows my brother.

He knows how my brother is about his sisters.

We've known each other since childhood.

This isn't some random stranger.

There's history here.

There are connections here.

There is accountability here.

Right?

WRONG.

Because if there's one thing the Dating Chronicles have taught me, it's that my ability to confidently miscalculate a situation deserves its own fucking award.

---

We exchanged numbers.

Started talking.

Started hanging out.

And unlike some of these Facebook Dating situations that implode before I've even learned the man's middle name, this actually lasted a little while.

Maybe two months.

Maybe three.

Long enough for me to get comfortable.

Long enough for me to care.

And definitely long enough for me to start doing something I naturally do when I care about somebody:

Helping.

When we started dealing with each other, this man did not have much.

No steady job.

No real income.

No proper place of his own.

He was staying on somebody's property in this tiny little raggedy-ass trailer situation.

And when I say tiny...

Baby.

It wasn't giving tiny house.

It wasn't giving minimalist lifestyle.

It was giving:

“The county may have questions.”

And somehow inside this little situation were TWO big-ass dogs.

Two.

Big.

Dogs.

And these weren't no little fluffy purse dogs.

These were big motherfuckers.

But here's the thing.

I didn't judge him for where he was in life.

I wasn't looking at him thinking:

He doesn't have enough money.

He doesn't have this.

He doesn't have that.

That's not how I operate.

People fall on hard times.

People rebuild.

People start over.

I don't need a man to already have everything.

If I care about you and I see you trying?

I'll help you build.

And to be fair to him, he was trying.

That's important.

I don't want to rewrite history just because of how the shit ended.

He would do little odd jobs with friends.

Painting.

Physical labor.

Whatever he could find.

And if he made $100 that day, this man might try to hand me $50.

I'd be like:

“Boy, keep your money.”

Because I could see he was trying.

That mattered to me.

I was working.

I had my own shit.

At the time, I had two cars.

A Dodge Charger and, if I remember correctly, a Hyundai Sonata.

And almost every night after work, I'd go pick him up.

Because that's what you do when you're dealing with somebody and they're trying to get themselves together.

At least that's what I do.

I'm not going to kick you while you're down.

I'm going to help you get up.

And somewhere in the middle of all that helping...

I got wrapped the fuck up.

---

Now...

Was the sex amazing?

Let's discuss this respectfully.

It was...

adequate.

😂

He wasn't exactly working with industrial equipment.

Let's just say that.

But I liked him.

We had known each other forever.

There was history.

There was familiarity.

There was this weird feeling of:

Damn, we've known each other since we were kids and somehow NOW we're doing this?

Plus, he was my brother's friend.

All of those things made the connection feel deeper to me than maybe it actually was.

Because baby...

I did something for this man I had NEVER done for another man in my entire life.

I let him drive my car.

Not drive me somewhere.

Not move the car out of the driveway.

Not:

“Baby, run up the street real quick.”

No.

I basically gave this man access to my second vehicle.

And at that point in my life, I was probably 45 or 46 years old.

Do you understand how many men had come and gone before then without getting a set of my fucking car keys?

But I trusted him.

One weekend he was at my house and said he needed to go check on his dogs.

I didn't feel like going.

So I said:

“Here. Take the other car.”

Simple.

Go check on your dogs.

Come back.

Except after that, it kind of became his car to use.

He had the keys.

He drove it.

And honestly?

I didn't care.

The car was paid for.

It had insurance.

Tags.

Gas.

Everything.

He wasn't making a payment.

He wasn't paying insurance.

He wasn't paying registration.

All I asked was:

Take care of my shit.

That car also had another purpose.

My son was old enough to drive and was learning.

He worked overnight at a warehouse, so at night I would take that particular car and let my son drive to work while I rode with him.

It gave him practice.

So even though this man was using the car, I still needed it available and in decent condition because my son was learning to drive in it.

Keep that information.

We're going to need it.

---

But before we get to the tire...

We need to discuss:

THE RUG.

I had a rug in my house.

My dog had apparently decided this rug was his personal bathroom.

Piss.

Probably shit.

Whatever.

The rug had served its country.

I was done.

I said:

“I'm throwing this motherfucker away.”

Mr. Soon-to-Be-Free-Air says:

“No, don't throw it away. I'll take it with me and wash it.”

Okay.

Why?

I don't fucking know.

But if you want to save Private Rug, go ahead.

So he puts this pissy-ass rug in the trunk of my car.

And in my mind?

He took it home.

Washed it.

Saved it.

Whatever the fuck his rehabilitation plan for this rug was.

I forgot about it.

Until one day...

I got in my car.

And BABY.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SMELL?!

I mean the car smelled like straight ASS.

Shit.

Piss.

Death.

Regret.

Bad decisions.

It smelled like somebody had opened an animal shelter inside a porta-potty and parked that motherfucker directly underneath the Kansas summer sun.

I'm sitting there like:

What is HAPPENING?!

I go inside.

“Why does the car smell like that?”

And this man says:

“Oh, I don't know.”

Then...

“Oh, maybe the rug is still in there.”

...

MAYBE THE RUG IS STILL IN THERE?!

Sir.

YOU TOOK THE RUG.

You volunteered for the fucking rug assignment!

I was throwing it AWAY!

You stopped the execution.

You granted this rug a pardon.

You put it in MY trunk.

And then apparently left that piss-soaked motherfucker marinating in there for damn near two weeks in the summertime.

What was the plan?!

Were we aging it?!

Was this a fermentation process?!

Were you waiting for the piss to develop notes of oak and cherry?!

Because why in the entire fuck is this rug STILL IN MY CAR?

So you know what I did?

Exactly what I was going to do before Captain Save-A-Rug got involved.

I took that motherfucker out of the trunk...

and threw it in the dumpster.

Problem solved.

Or so I thought.

Because apparently my Hyundai had another message for me.

And this time...

she was going to put that shit directly on the dashboard.

---

LOW TIRE PRESSURE.

One day I get into the car.

The tire-pressure warning is on.

Okay.

No big deal.

Cars need air.

Except this was one of those cars where the warning takes over the damn display.

So instead of easily seeing everything I normally saw on the dashboard, I'm staring at:

LOW TIRE PRESSURE.

Fine.

He'd been driving the car.

He'll handle it.

QuikTrip has free air.

And if you know Kansas City, you know you can throw a rock in damn near any direction and hit a QuikTrip.

There were several near me.

There was a gas station near where he stayed.

No big deal.

Day two.

I get in.

LOW TIRE PRESSURE.

Still?

Okay...

Day three.

I get in.

LOW TIRE PRESSURE.

Now I'm irritated.

Not because putting air in a tire is some huge mechanical repair.

That's exactly WHY I'm irritated.

AIR IS FREE.

You're driving a car you don't pay for.

You don't pay the car note because there isn't one.

You don't pay the insurance.

You don't pay the tags.

You don't have to do anything except put gas in it when necessary and take care of it.

And you can't stop and put FREE AIR in the fucking tire?

Meanwhile, I need this car at night so my son can practice driving on his way to work.

So on that third night, I take my son to work.

Come back home.

Walk into my apartment.

And there is my man.

In my kitchen.

Chilling.

Making himself a sandwich.

With MY bread.

MY lunch meat.

MY mayonnaise.

MY mustard.

MY cheese.

MY chips.

And let me be very clear:

I DID NOT CARE.

He was my man.

Eat.

Make two sandwiches.

Make four.

Take some chips.

Have a drink.

Whatever.

That wasn't the issue.

So I walk into the kitchen.

No attitude.

No yelling.

No confrontation.

Nothing.

And I remember exactly what I said because this moment is burned into my fucking brain.

Sweet as hell, I said:

“Hey, babe. I know my shit is my shit, but if you have my shit, can you make sure you take care of my shit?”

That's it.

He looks at me.

“What are you talking about?”

I said:

“The low tire pressure has been on for like three days. I use that car to take my son to work so he can learn how to drive. Air is free. You could've stopped at QuikTrip and put some air in the tire.”

He says:

“Okay.”

I say:

“Okay.”

DONE.

At least...

I THOUGHT WE WERE FUCKING DONE.

I go into my bedroom.

Get comfortable.

Take off my outside clothes.

Put on my little muumuu.

Sit cross-legged on my bed.

Start rolling my blunt.

Because in MY mind?

My man is here.

I'm home.

We're about to smoke.

Watch a movie.

Eat.

Maybe get a little...

freak-freak-freak-freak-freaky.

You know.

Grown people shit.

He's still in the kitchen.

Probably finishing his sandwich.

Life is peaceful.

Five minutes pass.

Maybe ten.

Then—

BOOM!

This motherfucker comes through my bedroom door like SWAT just got the warrant.

“CAN YOU TAKE ME FUCKING HOME?!”

I almost dropped the blunt.

WHAT?!

Hold the fuck on.

Approximately FIVE MINUTES AGO...

this man was applying mayonnaise to MY bread.

Now he's kicking through the bedroom door like we've reached the final scene of Training Day?

“What are you talking about?”

And he starts GOING THE FUCK OFF.

“I don't have time to be worried about nobody else's fucking car!”

“I got too much shit going on in my life!”

“I didn't see the light!”

Whatever.

Whatever.

Whatever.

And I'm sitting there in my fucking muumuu like:

Is this really happening over AIR?!

Sir...

I didn't ask you to rebuild the transmission.

I didn't ask you to replace an engine.

I didn't ask you to rotate the tires, perform an alignment and rebuild the suspension.

I asked you to stop at QuikTrip.

Take the little hose.

Put it on the tire.

And add some fucking air.

FREE AIR.

Meanwhile, he's grabbing his shit.

Overnight bag.

Clothes.

Whatever he had at my house.

Packing like the building is on fire.

And now?

You've pissed ME off.

Because all I asked was for you to take care of something of mine that YOU were using.

So now I'm yelling too.

“Yeah! Make sure you get EVERY motherfucking thing you got in here! Because whatever you leave, I'm throwing that shit in the fucking trash!”

Because if we're breaking up over PSI...

let's BREAK THE FUCK UP.

---

Now, while all this shit was exploding, there was another problem sitting in the background.

His phone.

At some point around this same period, he'd fallen asleep.

And yes.

I went through it.

I'm not about to rewrite history and pretend I accidentally tripped, fell and unlocked the man's phone.

No.

I looked.

And listen...

If you're going to go looking through somebody's phone, sometimes the thing you find is going to make you wish you had minded your motherfucking business.

I found videos involving him and another woman.

Sexual videos.

And there was conversation in those videos that appeared to involve hard drugs.

At first I didn't even understand what she was referring to.

Then I realized:

Oh.

OH.

So now, on top of everything else...

what the fuck have I gotten myself involved with?

That alone had already changed the way I looked at him.

Because whatever arrangement, history or situation existed there...

I didn't want any parts of it.

So by the time Mr. Free Air was stomping through my apartment packing his overnight bag because I'd asked him to put air in a tire?

Baby...

The universe wasn't sending me a sign anymore.

The universe had rented a billboard.

He gets his shit.

We get into the car.

He lives about fifteen minutes away.

Apparently anger altered the space-time continuum that evening because that was one QUICK ride.

And no...

we're not going to glorify driving angry.

Present-day me understands that getting somewhere safely matters more than getting there pissed off.

But THAT version of me?

That woman wanted this motherfucker OUT.

The entire ride?

Silence.

Not a word.

Nothing.

I pull up where he was staying.

He gets out.

And THEN...

after sitting silent for the entire ride...

this man turns around and delivers the sentence that permanently earned him a place in the Dating Chronicles.

“I never asked to drive your car.”

...

Excuse me?

WHAT?!

You never asked to drive my car?

So because YOU didn't originally ask for the car...

you don't have to take care of it while you're using it?

That's your argument?

Sir, you didn't ask for the bread either.

But somehow you figured out how to make a sandwich.

You didn't ask for the mayonnaise.

You located that motherfucker just fine.

You didn't ask for the chips.

Yet somehow they made it onto the plate.

But the AIR?

That's where personal responsibility became unreasonable?

And remember:

This wasn't some car I'd handed him yesterday.

He'd been driving it for about a MONTH.

At some point, “I never asked” stops being an explanation when you keep accepting the benefit.

And after he said that?

Baby...

whatever little bit of restraint I had left packed its own overnight bag.

Words were exchanged.

LOUDLY.

He slammed my car door.

And that was it.

Done.

Finished.

Over.

I never dealt with him again.

And the wildest part is...

I wasn't angry because he didn't have money.

I wasn't angry because he didn't have a regular job.

I wasn't angry because of where he lived.

I'd accepted all of that.

Because circumstances can change.

Money can change.

Jobs can change.

Housing can change.

I was willing to build with somebody who was trying.

What I couldn't build with was entitlement.

Because there is a difference between somebody needing help...

and somebody becoming comfortable with what you provide while resenting the smallest expectation attached to it.

I wasn't asking that man to become financially responsible for me.

I wasn't asking him to buy me a car.

I wasn't asking him to pay my bills.

I was asking:

If you're using my shit, take care of my shit.

That's it.

And somehow that request triggered a complete system failure.

Looking back, though?

I missed the funniest part.

The car tried to tell me.

For THREE DAYS, that Hyundai was flashing:

LOW PRESSURE.

And my dumb ass thought she was talking about the tire.

No, baby.

She was trying to warn me about the MAN.

LOW PRESSURE.

Dakota.

LOW PRESSURE.

Girl, LOOK AROUND.

LOW. FUCKING. PRESSURE.

Apparently my Hyundai had better intuition than I did.

First she endured the Piss Rug Incident.

Then she watched this man ignore her tire.

By Day Three she was probably thinking:

BITCH, IF YOU DON'T GET THIS MAN OUT OF ME.

And eventually?

I did.

Because all that man had to do was put free air in a tire.

Instead, he packed his overnight bag, kicked through my bedroom door, threw away a woman who had been helping him, slammed my car door and announced:

“I never asked to drive your car.”

You know what?

You're absolutely right, Mr. Free Air.

You didn't.

And after that night?

You never drove that motherfucker again.

I'm Dakota Denise.

And apparently I've been collecting Dating Chronicles since before Facebook Dating even had a chance to ruin my life.

And you already know the rule:

If the date doesn't work out, at least the story will.

Welcome back to Dating at Damn Near 50: The Dating Chronicles—where apparently my bad decisions believe in diversity, because after dealing with these damn men, I decided maybe I should try women.

Mr. Best Thigh Ever: Four Months of Dating, Eighteen Months of Stalking, and Apparently One Unforgettable Leg

There was a brief period in my life when I thought I might be done with men.

Not in the dramatic Facebook-status way where you post, “I'm focusing on myself,” then you're back texting somebody's son by Thursday.

I mean I actually started dating women.

And for a minute, I thought:

Ohhhh. Maybe THIS is where I've been fucking up.

Maybe I don't need another man.

Maybe I need a woman.

Somebody emotionally intelligent.

Somebody nurturing.

Somebody who understands women because she IS a woman.

Baby.

That theory lasted approximately four months.

Because apparently crazy does not give a fuck about gender.

Now, depending on how you want to label me, I guess you could say I'm bisexual.

But sexuality has always worked a little differently for me.

If I'm dealing with a man, I'm into men. I'm not sitting around looking at women.

If I'm dealing with a woman, I'm into women. I don't want to deal with a man.

That's just how my attraction works.

And around 2021 or 2022, I decided:

You know what?

Let's see what the ladies are talking about.

Surely this shit can't be worse than dating men.

I got on a dating app for women.

And honestly?

There wasn't a whole lot happening.

I was swiping, looking around, talking to people here and there.

I had matched with one woman and we became friends, and somehow through that connection, another woman found me.

To this day, the way she actually found me was a little strange.

She hadn't simply come across my profile in the normal way.

It was somehow through somebody else's page or connection.

Looking back?

That probably should've been the opening credits.

But at the time?

I didn't think much of it.

We started talking.

She seemed cool.

I liked her.

And eventually we started dating.

She was the type of lesbian who didn't really want me doing anything to her sexually.

She wanted to take care of me.

Okay.

Listen.

I am not here to argue with blessings.

😂

You want to do all the work?

Baby, clock in.

I'm not stopping you.

And initially?

Everything was GOOD.

She came to Kansas to see me.

Spent time at my house.

Met my family.

Hung around my daughter.

Nothing happened that made me think:

Dakota, this woman is about to give you enough material for an entire fucking chapter.

We were together for almost four months.

And at some point, it became my turn to visit her.

She lived in Iowa.

I lived in Kansas.

About a four-hour drive.

Now, here's something you need to understand about me.

I have serious anxiety about driving long distances, especially places I'm unfamiliar with.

So deciding to make that drive was a BIG fucking deal for me.

But this was my girlfriend.

I wanted to see her.

So I packed my shit, got in my car and headed toward Iowa.

Baby...

I was having a full-blown panic attack damn near the entire way.

Hyperventilating.

Crying.

Trying to calm myself down.

Talking myself through it.

Four hours of:

YOU'RE OKAY.

YOU CAN DO THIS.

JUST KEEP DRIVING.

By the time I finally arrived, my nervous system had fought in three wars.

And I'm thinking:

At least my woman is going to be excited to see me.

Maybe she'll be standing outside.

Maybe she'll hug me.

Maybe she'll recognize that I just drove four fucking hours while internally fighting for my life to get here.

I pull up.

Nobody.

Okay.

I go toward the apartment.

Door's open.

I walk inside.

Nobody.

Where the fuck is this woman?

Girl...

She's outside.

In the back.

PICKING WEEDS.

...

Bitch.

I just crossed STATE LINES while having a four-hour nervous breakdown...

and you're landscaping property you don't even fucking own?!

This is an APARTMENT.

Why are we doing groundskeeping?!

Did management put you on payroll?!

Are we getting a discount on rent?!

What the fuck is happening?

But okay.

Fine.

Maybe picking weeds relaxes her.

I don't know.

At this point, I'm exhausted.

My anxiety is still through the roof.

I'm sweaty.

I'm overwhelmed.

I just want to calm down.

So eventually I tell her:

“I need to take a shower.”

Simple enough.

And this woman says:

“Oh. I don't have any clean towels. You can use the one I've been using.”

...

Excuse me?

THE ONE YOU'VE BEEN USING?!

No, ma'am.

Absolutely the fuck not.

I'm not about to dry my freshly washed face with the same towel you've been drying your ass with for however many days.

And here's where I became confused.

You knew your girlfriend was coming.

You knew I was driving FOUR HOURS.

You had time to pick weeds behind an apartment complex...

but somehow we couldn't wash a fucking towel?

Priorities.

Apparently landscaping came before laundry.

So no.

I did not take that shower.

And from there?

The weekend just started getting weirder.

At some point there was an entire issue involving...

potato salad.

Yes.

Potato salad.

She wanted me to try her potato salad.

And somehow this became A THING.

Now, potato salad is already dangerous territory because everybody thinks their family makes the correct potato salad.

People will end friendships over raisins.

So I'm not trying to enter the Potato Salad Olympics.

I'm just like:

Girl.

I'll taste the fucking potato salad.

It is not this serious.

But somehow everything started feeling serious.

Little things.

Everything became a conversation.

Everything became an issue.

And then there was TikTok.

At the time, I was really trying to build my TikTok.

I wanted to go viral.

I was posting.

Creating.

Trying different things.

She HATED how much I was on TikTok.

And when I say hated...

Baby, she apparently declared war on my fucking account.

She started reporting my videos.

Over.

And over.

And over.

To the point that eventually?

My account got taken down.

Imagine being in a relationship with somebody and instead of saying:

“Baby, can you put the phone down so we can spend some time together?”

You apparently decide:

Fuck it. I'm contacting TikTok corporate.

😂

Ma'am.

What department are you working for?

Then there was her brother.

Her brother was my Facebook friend.

She didn't have Facebook.

But somehow...

this woman knew things I was posting.

Things I was talking about.

Things happening on MY Facebook page.

And eventually I realized:

THE BROTHER.

Sir had apparently become the Facebook Intelligence Agency.

So I blocked him.

Problem solved.

Right?

WRONG.

She got pissed.

“Why would you block my brother?”

Why do you care?!

It's MY Facebook page.

If I don't want your brother sitting in the observation tower reporting back to headquarters, I can remove him.

But this became another whole issue.

And I'm sitting there thinking:

What the fuck is happening?

---

Then we got to the weed.

Now remember:

This woman smoked weed too.

So I wasn't showing up in Iowa introducing marijuana to the household.

But apparently there were RULES.

I smoke blunts.

She didn't particularly like blunts because of the smoke.

Okay.

I can understand somebody not wanting a bunch of smoke in their house.

Fine.

A pipe.

A one-hitter.

A vape.

Whatever.

We can work around that.

But then suddenly?

There was another allegation.

Apparently...

I smoked all her weed.

Ma'am.

I BROUGHT WEED.

I had my own.

Then she bought more weed specifically for me.

Then she bought weed for herself.

I was smoking MY weed...

and the weed YOU bought for ME.

Somewhere during this three-day Iowa adventure, she got drunk one night and smoked through her own shit.

And somehow?

The investigation landed on Dakota.

How?!

Were we conducting inventory?!

Did somebody weigh the bags?!

Where is the chain of custody?!

Because I know what the fuck I smoked.

And apparently I was now being charged with:

GRAND THEFT CANNABIS.

At this point, we'd been together for about three months.

I had planned to stay in Iowa for approximately a WEEK.

Three days in?

Baby...

I WAS READY TO GO HOME.

The towel.

The weeds.

The potato salad.

TikTok.

Her brother.

The weed investigation.

Everything.

I was DONE.

But I didn't make some dramatic announcement.

I didn't sit her down.

I didn't organize a relationship summit.

I waited.

She had to go to work.

And the moment that woman left for work?

BABY, I PACKED MY SHIT.

Suitcase.

Bag.

Everything.

She had given me a ring.

Supposedly marriage was somewhere in the conversation.

I left that motherfucker there.

And I got in my car.

Kansas.

Here I come.

I had survived the drive to Iowa.

I could damn sure survive the drive AWAY from Iowa.

She apparently didn't realize what had happened until she came home during lunch.

Then my phone started ringing.

Crying.

“How could you do this to me?”

“I can't go back to work like this.”

Blaming me.

Upset.

Emotional.

And I'm driving like:

Girl...

I am GONE.

Eventually?

Blocked.

Done.

Finished.

At least...

that's what I thought.

---

The NEXT WEEKEND...

Guess who appears at my fucking house?

UNANNOUNCED.

I didn't know she was coming.

I didn't invite her.

I didn't expect her.

Nothing.

My son lets her inside because, as far as he knows, that's my girlfriend.

Makes sense.

Except I'm asleep.

And suddenly...

THIS WOMAN IS CLIMBING INTO MY BED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

Baby, when I tell you I almost came out of my fucking skin.

“What the FUCK are you doing here?!”

She's talking about:

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Ma'am.

I was fine.

I was sleeping.

IN KANSAS.

Where I left myself.

You drove four hours across state lines without telling me and climbed into my fucking bed.

That isn't romantic.

That's a boundary being crossed.

And yes, I had her blocked.

That was INFORMATION.

That was not a scavenger hunt.

If somebody blocks you, the appropriate response is not:

“Perhaps I should physically appear beside them while they're unconscious.”

But it was the middle of the night.

I wasn't putting somebody on the highway exhausted in the middle of the night.

So I let her stay until morning.

Morning comes.

Time to go.

Right?

Of course not.

Because now...

we need to discuss:

THE PHANTOM FOOTBALL GAME.

I'm inside my house smoking a blunt.

She comes in.

“Is there a football stadium near your house?”

I look at her.

“No.”

She says she can hear a football game.

...

What?

Now, let me explain where I lived.

I was RIGHT next to I-35.

And when I say right next to it?

I mean RIGHT THE FUCK THERE.

Highway.

Barrier.

Street.

Barrier.

Me.

I could practically wave at eighteen-wheelers from my window.

So outside my apartment, you heard:

Cars.

Trucks.

Motorcycles.

Eighteen-wheelers.

TRAFFIC.

This woman insists:

“No. Come outside.”

So I go outside.

Because apparently I have now been recruited into an auditory investigation.

We're standing there.

Traffic flying by.

She looks at me.

“You don't hear that?”

“Hear WHAT?”

“The game.”

“No.”

“They just said the score.”

...

WHAT?!

She gives me a fucking score.

Something like:

15 to 17.

I look around.

I-35 is doing what I-35 does.

VROOOOM.

HONNNNNK.

Motorcycle.

Truck.

Car.

And this woman is apparently listening to ESPN.

I'm like:

“Where are you hearing this?”

She says near her car.

Fine.

Let's walk over to your car.

Maybe there's a radio on.

Maybe somebody nearby has something playing.

Maybe there's an explanation.

We stand there.

Nothing.

She looks at me.

“You don't hear that?”

“No! I don't hear SHIT!”

At this point, I don't know what she's hearing.

I just know I'm not hearing it.

And I'm done standing outside beside the highway trying to locate an invisible football stadium.

So finally I tell her:

“You know what? Stay out here until the game is over. When it's finished, come inside and tell me the final score.”

Because I'm going back inside.

I have a blunt to smoke.

Then my sister calls.

It's the weekend.

Holiday.

She wants to barbecue.

Cool.

Come over.

My sister arrives with my cousin.

And guess who's STILL THERE?

The woman who was supposed to be going back to Iowa.

My sister invites her to stay for the barbecue.

Because my sister doesn't know we're currently experiencing Season Three of a breakup.

And somehow...

we arrive at:

THE EDIBLE INCIDENT.

She had brought edibles.

A container for herself.

And a container for me.

Wonderful.

Except somehow this woman ate through HER edibles...

and then apparently ate through MINE too.

Baby...

When I tell you this woman was HIGH.

HIGH.

Talking crazy.

Talking nonsense.

Burning food.

Doing all kinds of shit.

My sister and cousin are looking at me like:

What the FUCK did you bring around us?

And I'm looking back like:

I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE.

Because remember:

I had already LEFT THE RELATIONSHIP.

I fled Iowa.

I left the ring.

I blocked her.

Somehow one week later, she's at MY barbecue high off MY edibles while listening to imaginary football commentary beside I-35.

How did we get here?!

Eventually?

Enough.

You have to go.

Back to Iowa.

Relationship over.

Finished.

Done.

And at some point, I took that ring back.

And when she got her ass back to Iowa?

I pawned it.

😂

Sometimes closure comes in the form of emotional healing.

Sometimes closure comes with a pawn ticket.

Now...

This is where the story stops being funny for a minute.

Because what happened afterward wasn't funny.

The relationship lasted almost four months.

The unwanted contact afterward lasted approximately a year and a half.

Emails.

Attempts to contact me.

Interference with my social-media accounts.

Repeated efforts to get my attention after I had made it clear I wanted to be left alone.

And eventually, it became serious enough that I sought a restraining order.

Because there's a difference between somebody having difficulty accepting a breakup and somebody repeatedly refusing to respect your boundaries.

I had told her to leave me alone.

I had blocked her.

I had ended the relationship.

That should have been enough.

It wasn't.

And eventually I needed a legal boundary because my personal one wasn't being respected.

That part isn't a punchline.

Nobody should have to spend a year and a half wondering what somebody they broke up with is going to do next to get their attention.

But apparently...

even after all that...

we weren't quite finished.

Because eventually this woman accused ME of giving HER an STI.

And I had questions.

Mainly:

HOW?!

Because without getting too graphic...

our particular sexual geography made that allegation extremely confusing to me.

Remember when I told you she was the type who didn't want me doing anything to her?

Yeah.

Our bodies weren't exactly interacting in the way her accusation suggested.

In fact...

this woman had developed a very particular relationship with...

my thigh.

Yes.

My THIGH.

Which eventually led to one of the greatest conversations I've ever had with my best friend.

My best friend was listening to me talk about everything this woman had done.

The calls.

The messages.

The social media.

The persistence.

All of it.

Finally she says:

“Bitch, that woman is stalking you like a man would stalk a woman.”

And because I am me, I said:

“Well, shit. Maybe I got that good pussy.”

My best friend pauses.

Looks at me.

Then says:

“Bitch. You told me she never even got down there.”

I stopped.

Because...

technically?

She was correct.

I said:

“No. She always grinded on my thigh.”

Silence.

My best friend processes this information.

Then she looks at me and says:

“Bitch... that must be the best thigh that bitch ever had.”

I LOST IT.

😂😂😂

Because after ALL THAT...

after four months of dating...

three days of Iowa chaos...

weed investigations...

potato-salad negotiations...

TikTok warfare...

Facebook espionage...

phantom football games...

a barbecue...

missing edibles...

a ring...

a breakup...

and approximately a year and a half of unwanted contact...

apparently the most powerful weapon I'd possessed the entire time...

was my fucking FEMUR

So for anybody wondering whether my brief departure from dating men solved my dating problems?

No.

Absolutely the fuck not.

Turns out men weren't the entire problem.

My picker apparently had equal-opportunity employment.

I tried something different and somehow ended up with potato-salad arguments, an Iowa weed investigation, a phantom football game, missing edibles, TikTok warfare, an STI accusation that defied the known geography of our sexual relationship, and eventually a restraining order.

All because apparently...

I have an exceptional thigh.

So congratulations, Mr. Best Thigh Ever.

You accomplished something no man in the Dating Chronicles has managed yet.

You made me briefly reconsider men.

And that's saying some shit.

I'm Dakota Denise.

And whether I'm dating men, women, or apparently somebody listening to imaginary football commentary beside I-35...

the rule remains the same:

If the date doesn't work out, at least the story will.