Update on HIM as of 2/5/22

Updated: Feb 9

Him hadn’t answered me for a week since I had drunkenly texted him on a girl’s weekend trip. Whoops. Yes, I need that app that blocks your drunk texting, if that thing still exists.









Per the screenshot shown here, after a string of blue, meaning lots of texts without a response from Him, I gave up.


















Until today, when I was supposed to be working but of course got distracted by thoughts of his contagious smile.


What the hell was one more text going to hurt? He was ignoring me at this point anyway.

Me: Sorry, I’m not trying to be annoying. I just care, that’s all.

The above text is me attempting to write something that the chilled, yet concerned babe would say. Because Him loves babes.


“She’s a babe,” he’ll say, referring to basically any female in his life that would make Little Jimmy point north.


I waited for a minute, then decided to go back to being somewhat productive work-wise. The really fun bill-paying work. Don’t ask what I do. For all you know, I write instruction manuals for wearing Depends and Dentures. Whatever.


My phone rings, and it’s Him. “I’m packing,” he says. I’m shocked. Today is actually the day. “Oh, god,” I said, caught off guard.

“I mean, I’m drinking of course. And if these fuckers think they’re sending me some Toyota Corolla Uber to the detox center, they’re idiots. I’m definitely getting an Uber XL. My legs can’t fit in the back of those dumb cars.” Hey, if I was going to rehab, I’d be spending my last moments in a fit of luxury as well, I couldn’t judge this time.

“How much is it?” I couldn’t help asking.

“It’s $220. The regular one is $140.” I did the quick math.

“Definitely worth the extra 80 bucks. You drinking?” I figured as such.

“Sutter Home Sauvignon blanc…” So funny when rich people drink such crap. Especially since this was supposed to be his last booze for…eternity. DUN DUN DUN.



Him hit the FaceTime button just as I had finished applying a thick coat of mascara to my disappearing lashes, eyebrow pencil to well, my eyebrows, and a massive layer of cover up to a crater that had erupted near my chin the previous day.

Wearing black Rayban sunglasses and a white polo, Him looked good even getting ready for rehab. “How much of a princess am I?” he asked, and flipped the camera to a display of a large suitcase, smaller carry on, and a back pack.


“Hey, your rehab is basically a 30 day spa-venture, so you have a lot of clothing to pack.”

“Exactly, and a lot of books to read.”


Read that line again: “Exactly, and a lot of books to read.”


Even the guy who has to be sent away for 30 days because he acts like a toddler in a candy store around booze reads books. This irony of course comes full circle directly from the universe validating my thoughts on settling for humans who only read encyclopedias.


So, since Him reads, I swoon. He hangs up but calls back later from the Uber ride. “I’m here with mah man Warren G, we got them roadies!” I can’t help but smile at the fact that Him is bouncing into detox with a fresh roadie. Go big and go to detox. Him’s heart must have started to melt because he began to sing my praises… “You’re such an amazing person, and your friendship means so much to me.”


I stopped him right there.


“We’re not friends,” I say. He chokes a bit.

“Well, special friends,” he says in attempt to correct himself.

“I don’t have sex with my guy friends,” I say.

“Semantics,” he tries.


I later explained to my dad that Him is NOT my friend because if I were out with him and I saw him with another girl, it would make my stomach churn and suppress my appetite potentially for weeks (which then again, would be advantageous for the waistline).


“How far are we?” I hear him ask the Uber driver. “Ten minutes,” Warren G answers. I can feel his nerves through the speakerphone.


“Well, this is it,” he says. I somehow stay unemotional. Me six months ago would have been weeping. Progress.


“I gotta go, I have a call,” I said. “You got this,” I said and got off the phone before I could add something dumb such as “good luck” or “I’m proud of you.” It’s crazy to think as I write this after having had a couple drinks at my parents’ that he is in a bed somewhere in the middle of nowhere in a detox center. According to Dr. Google, he should be experiencing headaches and perhaps some anxiety as phase 1 of alcohol detox. If you’re dying to know what phases 2 and 3 entail, read on your own. I must say, the hallucinations part seems anything but enticing.


After having a 1 on 1 with Dr. Google, I contemplate whether I need my own detox. I decide I’ll start on Monday. Yes… always start on Monday. I just haven't decided which Monday that will be.


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