Date 5- Atonal and slightly hormonal

The Blogger and I had been texting for a few days when we spontaneously decided to have a drink together. We met at a dive bar in our neighborhood for two beers. It wasn't a particularly memorable evening; it reminded me that just because someone is nice and interesting doesn't mean they are right for you, and certainly doesn't mean you have chemistry. But as with so many people in the diverse city, he had particular and interesting tastes, travels frequently for music festivals specializing in atonal, discordant music ("No salsa? No bluegrass?") to write about in his blog. This wouldn't have been a fiery love match under the best of circumstances, but I had hurriedly patched the date together because of strange doings with the Italian. A bit of background: after Friday's peculiar date I had been unsure of how to move forward with the Italian. I woke up to a flurry of text messages asking if he could pick me up so we could have an adventure on his Vespa, go to dinner, etc. I declined, because I'm a Rules Girl AND I've got shit to do. I survived quite well without this man in my life, I can't drop everything to hop on the back of his scooter (or could I?). Late Saturday he sent an emotional "I like you so much" text, undoubtedly a few drinks in, then Sunday morning early sent his morning love text. I had an intensely busy Sunday morning of racing in Central Park and furniture moving, and neglected to reply in a timely manner. At 2pm, he texts "You think I'm a piece of shit, why didn't you just tell me? You don't care about me." I write back to him that I am sorry, I've been very busy but I adore him. I don't hear from him for the rest of the day...my crazy wheels are on overdrive. I've been listening to love songs all weekend and cleaning and painting furniture; I want a MAN in my home. WHy does it seem that the more you look forward to something, the more likely it is to fall apart? This is the curse of raised expectations; I went to the top of the mountain, then got kicked back down.

At 10pm I get the following text: "Anyway, you are flaky. You are full of shit, and you will only get shit back."

I am so stunned, I laugh hysterically, uncontrollably. What happened in the last 24 hours that would provoke a 50 year old man to text something like that? He didn't just get nasty, he ran across the bridge and lit it on fire behind him. I text him a few times asking if he is serious, could he possibly mean this? What had I done other than fail to answer a text quickly enough? I come into work the next day and relay the story to the girls; they are shocked and appalled. He must be crazy, we think, or maybe he still has a wife around? What could explain this? I lick my wounds but send him a few texts: "What happened with you? I honestly don't understand?"

"Amore, I have strong feelings for you, I don't want to get hurt."

I know I have lost my mind, but I can't right myself. No matter how logical I try to be, my judgement is murky. How have I only known this man one week and I am throwing all sense out the window? One week ago, I wouldn't have thought myself to be weak or lonely but here I am. I have greater sympathy for the many times I have seen coworkers lose their shit over a bonehead because the tables have turned. After the stale toast date, Andrea calls...calls...calls. This is his MO. Finally I answer, half tipsy and so angry and hurt I could kill him. He turns everything on me; he is a pro at this game, a master manipulator. How many women is he torturing at the same time he torments me?

FIFTH DATE- ROOM TEMPERATURE

BEER SELECTION- I HOPE I NEVER TYPE THAT AGAIN

CURRENT CONDITIONS- NEUROTIC