He doesn’t exactly have the greatest leg to stand on there.
He looks like every guitarist in a Baltimore metal band.
Me:
Using that for sure.
I repeat what she sent me. “Timmy, you look like every guitarist in a Baltimore metal band.”
He recoils as if I’ve physically slapped him, and storms out of the room.
God forbid someone mirrors even a fraction of his toxic energy back at him.
Timmy is a one-way street with a dead end.
When he returns, his insults have only sharpened. “You’re such a cunt,” he spits.
How original.
“Well, you’re ugly and fat if we’re going there,” I snap back. I know it’s mean, and I hate resorting to his level. But he’s poked and prodded me past my breaking point.
He looks like he’s about to cry, and I feel a flicker of guilt. But the exhaustion is greater.
He’s going lower and lower. I tried to go higher, but now I’m going subterranean.
Two can play this toxic game.
Alice:
Just ignore him. Which sucks. But stonewall him.
Me:
I wouldn’t normally comment on people’s appearance, but I’m feeling mean at this point. Yes, I’ll stonewall him.
Alice:
Good. Ignoring people sucks but sometimes it’s the only way to get past things.
But it’s easier said than done.
“You said a mean thing,” says Timmy, as if he hadn’t said 1,234,567,890 far meaner things to get me to this point. “You’re so fucking gross.”
“You’reso fucking gross, Timmy. Look at yourself,” I snap back. “The drug people want you because you’re a loser who walks around with your ass hanging out of your pants.”
My insults are back to being truthful.
I keep going.
“You should really be with someone less intelligent than you, but it would be a small pool.”
He glares at me and looks as if he’s about to cry.
A few minutes later, he’s offering me food.
Did I neutralize him with my barbs? For whatever reason, he appears to be offering me a peace offering.
I sigh. This is exhausting.