One was this African dude who would always bring me
clothes.
Well, I didn’t really date him. It felt like I dated him,
because he would call me so much, and he would bring me
shoes and clothes that didn’t mt. He put them in front of my
house—like, right at the front door, like some sort of broke-
ass Santa Claus.
I never went anywhere with him, because who leaves
gifts at your door? And they were bad gifts, like really small
clothes, double zero clothes. Or a pantsuit, and it’s double
zero, too. I don’t wear a double zero. I’m not close to that
size.
He brought me some Dada shoes, but they were a size
six. I wear a ten. I was like, ugh. I didn’t like that. I threw the
clothes and the shoes away, and then he stopped bringing
me things, because he went to jail.
He was running some of those Nigerian prince email
scams. Using people’s credit cards and checks, for identity
theft. Hitting up old people for their money, that kind of
stuff.
The Nice Guy
I dated a lawyer once. He was much older than me, like
sixty, and he was so nice. He was always kind, always polite,
and bought me nice things. He took me nice places, taught
me a lot, was easy to talk to, a good communicator, and we
had a lot of fun. Wherever we’d go, we would have a good