RedHobo.com RedLeb v2; the musings of a Lebanese hobo. Now in exciting seaweed flavor

I heart creepy

Photo by Gabriela Camerotti

Women scare me.

Ask me anytime, and I’ll argue the merits of bachelorhood with the eloquence of Arabian philosophers and the conviction of pack-mules; any time, except around Valentine’s.

And no, the Hallmark spirit doesn’t penetrate my quiet but callous façade and seep into my shrivelled heart, birthing an organ of hope and love – ‘cause that’s weird; it’s just that around Valentine’s, women get dangerous.

Cue childhood trauma music.

Enter Rhonda, my very first experience with obsessive love; thankfully, I was not the object of her affections.

Rhonda was part of the circumstantial baggage that came with my first girlfriend, and my roommate Rami was the only boy she could ever possibly love. Ever.

I’ve since learned to identify that particular glimmer of insanity in a woman’s eye, the one you should never, ever reject; but back in our naive teens, we thought that the world was a happy place where yes meant yes, no meant no, and smiling women did not secretly plan on slitting your throat while you slept.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

‘He doesn’t want to make out, what do I do?’

This was the first time my girlfriend and I got close, and that was Rhonda talking loudly through my locked bedroom door at a rather critical moment. I was exasperated.

‘Rhonda, if he doesn’t want you it shouldn’t be forced; give him space.’

I would’ve mentioned that it was an inconvenient time to be discussing this, but it would’ve made no difference whatsoever.

‘But it’ll be Valentine’s in a few days, what do I do?’

I was young, it was late, and I had less than an hour left with my topless girlfriend; I had to say something. I never did get the chance to apologize to Rami.