Marv, from Lucky Number Grill

Trip

When not drinking, he was a nerd.  A nerd who is getting his MA in Military History.  He collected portraits of Wellington and was painting a portrait of Nelson.  He claimed to be a portraitist and had a BA in fine art.  Anyway, Admiral Nelson appeared to have been carved from that deli meat where cheese bits are worked into a bologna.  His other portraits appeared to be of half-flounderpeople whose eyes were slowly migrating to one side of their head or the other.  He only talked with one side of his mouth, which I have never seen a man of 33 accomplish.  Most of his media horde consisted of post-punk, opera, historical nonfiction movies about war, and 19th C. costume dramas. He hated porn and strip clubs. He was an eccentric trust fund baby... and a super-nerd.

When drunk, he became Baltimore's Most Racist Person.  There was nothing that a person of color or a non-Protestant could do that would escape the rubber/iron trap of is mind. Also when drunk, he told me in detail about how he ogled waitresses and the chick that cut his hair.  I guess it's a good thing that he hated strip clubs because he brought a strip club mentality into all of his tipping arrangements with women.  He told me these things because I was not really a woman.  I was more than that.  He'd never DATE any of those girls.  Check.  Add misogynist to the racist.  Ever see someone drunk rant about things?  Well, up the volume and make it everything that you've ever wanted to punch someone in the mouth about.  Bad drunk.

Let me explain: 2pm on a Sunday.  He was down a 1.75 liter "big" bottle of white wine.  Then he opened a regular sized red wine, and we finished that.  Then he opened A 2 LITER of cheap scotch.   He couldn't walk and was running into things when he decided that it was time to grill some steaks.  He put some coals in and squirted them liberally with lighter fluid (yes, he WAS smoking a cigarette while doing this) and then put the steaks on and closed the lid.  In five minutes, the fire was running low (he hadn't put enough coals in) so he picked up one of the steaks and then squirted more lighter fluid on them.   Then he put the steak down and squirted more lighter fluid IN BETWEEN THE STEAKS.   I didn't have steak that night.  He passed out in his living room and when I walked him up to bed he apologized for getting drunk.  Then got all frustrated because he couldn't get it up.  That was the last night I saw him.

He wasn't on anti-depressants because you "can't drink and be on anti-depressants."  As to the upswings: One weekend I stood by and watched him spend about two thousand dollars.  Over five hundred of it was on food and drinks... and four hundred of it was on jeans and music.  Three hundred on a hotel.  Two hundred on our train tickets.  This was planned the day before because he suddenly felt like going to NYC.

Diagnosis: Mollycoddle. Bipolar and impotent co-morbid with alcoholism.

Profile: Jack Swindle, Ladies' Man

This is from an old, pre-diagnosis dating profile I put up on some site somewhere. Strange how accurate it all was; equally strange is that I never got a response from anyone. Huh.--JS

I drink too much. I have high blood pressure, probably from drinking too much. Sometimes I talk so much I annoy myself. I’m terrible with money, and I have anger problems that I think are finally resolved but only through a precarious balance of prescription drugs, an attractive therapist and a campaign of aggressive honesty against my own BS.

Meeting women is not a problem I have. The reason I’m here is that my last few girlfriends have been smart, interesting women who don’t know sh*t about literature, science or history. So, if that describes you, you can still message me but you should be exceptionally attractive.

If you’re still with me, let me tell you the good stuff: I’m Hilarious (capital H intended), extremely witty, very well read and culturally ambitious. And even though I probably come off like a complete prick here, I’m actually a respectful person who will listen to your Russian novel-esque tales of family intrigue with sincere interest. I have an insane amount of energy, a natural tendency to organize people and things around me, and a genuine appetite for life and people.

Oh and you should know: sex is important to me. You should be an open-mouthed kisser and a sensualist at heart; otherwise we’ll just be good friends who drink together, which is fine in its own right.

Krysztof Cuzmeerski (names changed to protect my blog)

I think I might have trained him, and I definitely worked with him.  One day I noticed he was hanging around a lot.  The next day he walked up to me and stood with his face a foot and a half away from me and kept me in eyelock until I told him to go away that he was bothering me.  I reported him.  He was reprimanded.  He cornered me in an elevator.  I reported him.  He was reprimanded.  He continued to follow me around outside of and inside of work.  I reported him.  He was reprimanded.  I quite literally saw him every time I turned around at work... he was always sliding off just out of eyesight like a cockroach.  This went on for two months.  He was fired.  I quit.  He returned every day in a three piece suit looking for me.  He harassed my work friends for four months until one mentioned that he had been in bothering my ex for my phone number using "because we were going to get married, he just had to find me" as his reason.  Then I ask around and he'd been bothering a bunch of my friends there but they hadn't said anything.  I went to Middle Park Precinct and filed a stalking order.  They said that it would take a little bit for the temporary one to go into effect because he had to be served with the papers.  I told them that he'd be at the Cosmopolitan Museum of Art at 5:30 when the staff leaves.  They went out of curiosity the next day and served him the papers.  Of course he was there, with the three piece suit.

I do not lie.  He thought he was going to marry me.  If you google his (real) name and my (real) name you'll find that he has filed a Federal civil rights case against me, the management of the Cosmopolitan Museum, and the City of New Amsterdam.  I hope he gets deported.

Diagnosis: Decidedly THREE FLAVORS BATSHIT.

Profile: A Noni Miss

Still infuriated that her 21^st birthday, like all holidays, was uneventful; friends say she left the basement dance club in a swinging hysteria, insisting that they had changed its architecture at last call (adding new walls and eliminating the back entrance) AND that “they” had stolen her identity. Feels trapped when wearing socks to bed. Quite certain she is exceptionally easy to get along with, yet she has frequently been on the receiving end of flying objects…once after deflowering a nice young man. Apologies accepted. Sat on a hot electric stove (still safer than gas) to impress said young man. Bought a ringtone and assigned it to a person who hasn’t (and probably never will) call her. Thinks money was well-spent, regardless.

Bored. Anxious. Crushes like a tween. Texts like a teen (more addictive than her favorite drugs, as good as some sex). Gets lost in mind-numbing activities, like cleaning. Has a creepy passion for food, especially things that are gummy, gooey, or hard. Hates to cook. Loves to cook; hates to clean. Judges others for what they eat. Swears that frozen pot pies are the best whole meal value in any supermarket. Finds this consistent with watching reality tv. She’s “above it [all],” but allows herself the base pleasures of watching “Keeping up with the Kardashians” by justifying it as an academic pursuit.

Geography teacher. Gets lost easily. Doesn't believe in weather. Adamant that all plants should grow without fertilizer (or consistent watering). Has killed many. Convinced that medication will make her “go postal.” Father: letter carrier.

Now a mom, she can be found gaping in awe and crying at the miracle of child development, especially language-learning. Potentially channels a higher power. Hates the term righteous, but secretly knows it’s an apt self-descriptor. Evidence suggests she is very charismatic; is often invited to social events but convinces herself that people think she is either dull, ugly, or embarrassing to them. Backs out on nearly all plans made too far in advance. The same night, may be seen headed to a bar alone. Wants a simple life: a garden and a nice, clean companion. Feverishly attracted to everything but, as her level of interest roughly approximates her company’s degree of psychotic or revolutionary thought. Develops elaborate potential dialogues and endpoints for relationships; sometimes intentionally mis-remembers which of these actually occurred. Surprisingly, knows her limits: no tequila and no role play. Everything else is fair game.  

Diagnosis: Libra. OCD. Egomania. Undiagnosed cyclothymia. Mild academia.

Profile: This Moses Guy

Openly defies Egyptian authority. Just walks right into large bodies of water. Pretends to read things on rocks. Crotchety. Gets all murderous when people dance around false idols. Leads us around the desert for forty years. Tells us to get our food from the sky. Talks to burning plants and whirlwinds. Gives coveted high-priest job to his brother. Yells a lot. Founds monotheism.

Diagnosis: Ancient, Batshit

Profile: Froman

Guest post from "Froman".  Enjoy.


General Anxiety Disorder, bordering on panic disorder with just a touch of OCD.  Unable to control racing thoughts (mostly concerns and fears). Spends a lot of time at home hiding in the confines of his apartment. Has trouble keeping in touch with friends because of being uncomfortable with phone conversations and inability to travel in winter without a driver because of fear of car accidents.
Has been in 8 car accidents in his life as a passenger or driver, resulting in 2 concussions, three totaled cars and one white trash lawsuit.  Racing thoughts and lack of concentration have led to numerous unfinished projects and severely undermined confidence in the chances of any of them ever seeing the light of day. Cannot even complete a blog on a regular basis and finds his ability to focus akin to that of a Justin Bieber fan on Oxycontin.  Regularly finds flashes of insight buried in a sea of fucktardian theatrics and immediately forgets it if he doesn’t write it down. Promptly loses it in a pile of papers that he generally loses or throws away amidst a pocket full of receipts, headphones, ink pens and paraphernalia.  Keeps coat pockets so full of said items he has broken two hooks off his coat rack.
Finds himself regularly insensitive to things others are going through until it’s too late. Often insults strangers without meaning to due to lack of insight into others.   Over-analyzes everything he encounters until he is so tied in knots about it that he just leaps brashly into it and generally fucks it up.  Spends money like a hooker with a government check.  Has quit taking both medications he has been prescribed in the past due to complications like unquenchable sexual urges or coma but is again looking for a new one.  No end in sight.