You should never break up with someone via text or e-mail…because you might accidentally post it publicly on FaceBook. I’ve met The Scientist a total of four times now. Last weekend when he asked if I wanted to do something that weekend, I told him it had to be cheap or free because I was low on funds. It was an extra, “treat me to something” nudge he didn’t take the bait for. Watching a movie and playing with his cats at his place was free, he said. Heading over to his place on Friday night, my new first date for Saturday night texted me to cancel. There goes the back-up plan. Something about waiting for his new furniture to be delivered didn’t add up as to why we couldn’t head to a bar that night and he got my lame “Ok, I’ll probably be free again at some point one weekend…” reply. I couldn’t judge him that harshly, he probably had another date lined up when I was on my way to one.

One of The Scientist’s cats promptly made herself comfortable on my lap shortly after my arrival. Then we talked. Just talked. And he kissed me a couple of times. I felt nothing. Honestly, there was nothing wrong with the kiss itself, it just felt empty on my end. We kept talking but I kept feeling physically uncomfortable around him. The conversation was okay, but he just didn’t seem like the right match for me somehow. He also seemed to want to constantly be touching me –not in a sexual way, but a cuddling way- and it was all just a little much so early on. Hours went by and we didn’t watch a movie. It got late. I asked him how long he’d been living there. A couple of years. Where had he been living before that? A couple of blocks down. Why had he moved so close by? He hadn’t intended to move. He said it was an upgrade. The place wasn’t that large, how small of an apartment had he been in before? It wasn’t smaller. “The other was a rental. I own this,” he told me. He owned an apartment in a very expensive/upscale neighborhood, on his own, and he couldn’t chip in for dinner every now and then, while I’m living paycheck to paycheck?! “Oh.” I said. I keep thinking all of this makes me sound shallow, but then I rationalize. Others have paid for me, and every now and then I’ve paid for myself and sometimes I’ve paid for them and I never had an issue with it. We always went somewhere affordable, or they’d insist “my treat.” Even friends did this. This guy wouldn’t chip in for anything at all for me, even just as a friendly sort of gesture, putting the dating thing aside.

A few days later he sent me a text letting me know he’d be going on vacation for five days and if I wanted to see him before then he was available Wednesday. What was there to do on a weeknight? I invited him to my place. It just seemed fair, I’d been to his. Except, I don’t live all that close to him, so I used his line that he was welcome to stay over and not have sex with me also. Once again we spent the night talking mostly. When I realized he’d taken me up on my offer to spend the night I regretted it. I had work early in the morning and didn’t want the trouble of sleeping next to someone new I wasn’t quite comfortable with yet. I didn’t know how to back out of it all when he didn’t live that close by, so it happened. Yes, I spent the night without a minute of sleep next to the super-clingy cuddling guy. By the time the morning came, I was feeling nearly repulsed by his presence. I was sweating, exhausted, and not from any reason you’d like to be sharing a bed with someone. I got ready for work and we walked to the train together. He took my hand and linked his fingers through mine. I felt awful. He seemed happy and was enjoying my company, while I felt nothing of the sort and now I had to crush that moment of happiness. I fell silent. None of the sentences I’d strung together in my mind sounded right. His stop came and he got off the train. I thought it might be the last time I’d see him. I remember the last time I saw everyone I ever dated and was no longer. Maybe that moment of him stepping off the train would be the last I saw of him.

I struggled to stay awake at my job. By the time I got home, I could barely stay awake as I typed and deleted the first sentence of what I thought would be an e-mail to him to let him know how I was feeling about all of this. I gave up and closed it all. He texted me asking if I’d been to a poetry reading. I asked about his inquiry. He said he was trying to think of new things for me to do with him. I rapidly started typing out all my feelings in my reply text. It wasn’t enough. I kept going. I told him everything. Every thought and feeling I had about him and our current situation. I typed up sexually explicit details. I left out nothing, just like I had that second night when he couldn’t figure me out and I went for complete honesty. I read and reread it a few times and then I copied the text to save it in case the text was too long to go through the first time and I lost it. I sent it. He asked me if it was my way of saying I didn’t want to see him again or it was just a general update. He was a nice guy, I didn’t exactly want to date him, but did I want to cease knowing him entirely? Not necessarily, I just didn’t seem to have any feelings developing for him. I told him it was a general update. He said he’d think about it.

Today he didn’t text me “good morning” after weeks of doing so each morning. I texted him to tell him to enjoy his vacation. He didn’t reply. Sitting on the train I scrolled through FaceBook on my phone. Reading through posts on a public group, I had something to share. I typed out my input, tapped “post” and got a “failed to post” message. I highlighted the text, tapped “copy,” and seeing the train was about to head into an area I’d lose cellphone service, I quickly tapped “paste” and “post.” My eyes grew large when I saw my text to The Scientist from the night before had appeared and it said “posting…” below. I rapidly starting clicking “delete.” On the screen “deleting…” remained with a little spinning circle, spinning, spinning, and then my cellphone lost service. Now I was in full blown panic mode, finger poised above the delete button waiting for the signal to return, cursing. Reading the text of what I’d actually posted in the background, making myself feel worse knowing everyone was reading this very private message having no idea why I’d posted it there. The signal returned a half hour later and I deleted the post. There were comments, “I think you posted this on the wrong page…” Mortified, I repeat, this is why you never break-up with someone through a textmessage.