Dating drug dealers
And I guess it was; textbook smart-nerdy-girl gets seduced by the “dark” side. What I saw was a sweet guy, in touch with his emotions, trying to kick a bad habit. The troubles started when he got his own apartment. I think we were talking about our feelings for each other, something we hardly ever did.
Either out of a need to pay rent, or because freedom made him feel invincible, he got it in his mind that there wasn’t anything wrong with dealing on the side. The worst thing about dating a drug dealer are the phone calls, closely followed by the impromptu visits. Then that dreaded ringtone sounded, closely followed by the sound of a car engine in the driveway.
I think after all of these years, the part that I remember most clearly is the fact that he didn’t even have the decency to get a bed. I didn’t wake up one morning, at 15 years old, and think that going out with a drug dealer was a great idea.
What he had instead was a futon mattress laying on the floor, upon which dust balls would find their way, sticking to the corners. It crept up on me, as I was a naïve and unaware kid.
That’s pretty much all I needed to know: I had to have him. When his longterm girlfriend broke things off with him because he was too possessive and volatile, I took my chance.
I should’ve really thought long and hard about the “possessive” and “volatile” thing.
He was able to hold a conversation with me, which is a rarity where I'm from.
The whole time we were sitting there, he kept fidgeting with his hat and running a hand through his hair.
"It's not to text the woman in another office who you found attractive or to send a picture of yourself in a state of undress." During another incident, an employee snapped during an argument with their spouse and went on to snap an e-reader in half.So now you are dating a drug dealer and the dates are nice but you have some questions about what this means for your life.Will you go to jail for just hanging around with this person?But I didn’t, and there he was: A boyfriend with a car, tattoos, and a penchant for weed. The power dynamics in that relationship were so screwed up, I felt like I didn’t have a right to voice my worries. I wrote him countless letters, explaining how wrong I thought this whole thing was under many angles. We were laying on his dusty folded up futon, the ceiling fan blowing hair in my face.Reading that, I can’t believe how cliché it all seems. I tried the “I couldn’t handle it if you went to jail” angle, as well as the “I hate your asshole friends” angle. It was one of our good days; quiet, silence enveloping us, comfortable.