Dumbass of Love
We all date crazy people at some point in our lives. I've dated a few raving nutballs myself, and I'd talk about them here, but I'm afraid that one of them might recognize it and come murder me in my sleep. A forum member by the name of saints gambit has ALSO dated at least one crazy person, and he wrote a story about it. I am going to share his story with you now, and hope that the crazy girl does not track him down and murder him in cold blood.
HERE'S WHAT WILL PROBABLY SOON BECOME MY STANDARD STORY WARNING - I DID NOT WRITE THIS. THIS DID NOT HAPPEN TO ME. SO IF YOU E-MAIL ME ASKING ME QUESTIONS ABOUT THIS STORY, I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO ANSWER THEM, AS IT DID NOT HAPPEN TO ME. THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN BY A FORUM MEMBER WHO GOES BY THE NICKNAME OF SAINTS GAMBIT. NOT ME. THANK YOU.
At the time, I can remember thinking, “this has got to end, and quickly.”
There I was, handcuffed to a futon, still groggy from a lack of sleep and the lack of morning coffee. The sheets were still wet from the glass of water she threw on me when she said, “I’m going to get some pop tarts and then go to the library to do some research. I’ll be back around three.” I guess it was some sort of power play on her part, attempting to define the relationship.
“What kind of pop tarts, Roxy?”
“The blueberry ones.”
The truth is I’ll never know why exactly I was handcuffed to a futon. I don’t think I did anything really evil. The main problem was that I had to pee, and that three o’clock was about six hours away. I tried to get the situation in focus. I had been brought up not to piss in people’s bedrooms, and I wanted to retain a sense of civility in the face of the panic that was rapidly setting in. Besides, I couldn’t even make it to the wastepaper basket if I wanted to. To make matters worse, her roommates were in Antigonish at some kind of crab boil.
There are a number of thoughts that run through your head in a situation like that. The first one is something like, “What the fuck are you doing you crazy bitch?” Secondly was, “Where did she get handcuffs in a town of 2500?” Thirdly is something like, “I gotta get out of this,” and is accompanied by the panic animals caught in traps feel. I’ll never look at a three legged fox the same. The fourth thought can’t really be verbalized. It comes of having pulled together to overcome the anger at your girlfriend and your current predicament and focus on the task at hand. The fifth, which is almost certainly not universal was, “I should do this quietly. There are people sleeping downstairs.”
I had seen Young Guns 2 earlier in the week, so I decided to try the Billy the Kid approach. I tried to push the handcuffs off my hands with my feet. This was not easy to attempt as it involved maneuvering to pull the mattress back and get a purchase on the chain in the middle. I do not recommend this approach, as it works slightly less well in real life. If you’re lucky you only get a toe caught in one of the cuffs. If you’re less lucky, you dislocate a thumb. In this case, both of those things happened, but the thumb snapped right back in. That was one option down.
The second thought was that I could just break the futon frame by standing on the slat and pulling up really hard on the cuffs. It turns out that this is not ideal if you’ve just managed to dislocate your thumb. Also, even at the best of times, there’s not really enough leverage to do any serious damage to the futon. Plus, balancing on the slat that you want to break is difficult if you’re squatting down to get maximum force. Crafty bloody Norwegians and their fiendish lumber. It also doesn’t help when you realize that there is no way to close the curtains, and that you’re squatting naked in plain view of the street and that the pressure on your bladder is building.
The thought occurred to me that I could use the chain part of the handcuffs to saw through the slat, and for a while it seemed to be working. Indeed, had I had about 10 hours, it would have been fine. I decided that I would have to work very quickly since I didn’t really want to be around when she got back, as I would likely have bludgeoned her to death with whichever heavy object was to hand at the time. I’m not by nature a violent person, but this kind of abuse tends to bring out my mean streak. Also, in working very quickly, my wrists would get bruised and bloody, and I would need to go to the hospital. Can you picture explaining this situation?
Eventually, I remembered that I had my Swiss army knife when I came over, and I could see that they were still in my pocket. The main problem was that the jeans were hanging on the other side of the room. So, I get the mattress out of the way with a series of well placed nudges and kicks, and attempt to fold up the frame. That didn’t work because it would have folded onto my hand. I pick up the futon frame, trying desperately to be quiet so as not to piss off the downstairs neighbours and tiptoe gently across the room. I have to tiptoe because the frame is longer than I am tall, and I’m holding it just off the floor. Also, I’m walking with my knees together to attempt to relieve the pressure that is building in my bladder. On the way across the room, I manage to dodge the light fixture. It is only when I get there that I realize the screwdriver won’t work because of the inscrutable fucking Norwegians and their hex key assembly of nigh unto ultimate peril.
Many of you have wondered why you need the saw attachment in an urban setting. This is the reason. I’m sawing in short strokes through this slat, and all the while I’m wondering whether I’m going to make it to the bathroom. Who knew that the sound of freedom from tyrannical ex-dominatrix nymphomanical girlfriends was “Voopa?”
Voopa, that sweet sound of impending release. It’s a sound you can put your faith in.
Voopa. “You’re not going to make it, just drag the frame to the wastebasket, gambit.” Voopa. “It’s game over for sure, man.” Voopa. “There’s no way out.” Voop-ker-chik. The saw hit the chain on the cuffs.