"Are you ever going to answer your phone? I want to hang out." That's the actual message I got from Booty Call Matt in the wee hours of this morning.
Every. single. time. I think I've heard the last from him, he pops back up. Dude, I've not seen you in going on two years. It's been more than a year since I've spoken to you. Why do you keep calling me? More importantly, what on Earth makes you think it's okay to call me 16 times between 3:19 and 3:30 a.m. after not calling me for several months?
Okay, I know he keeps calling because I never officially ended things with him. But Jesus fucking Christ, an hour after bar time on a weeknight is not the time to have that discussion. If he'd call at a semi-decent hour, I would explain the situation to him. I no longer fear a repeat of what happened when I tried to break it off with him once before (after 45 minutes of whining and begging on the phone, he ended up at my place "to say goodbye." I'm sure you can all figure out what happened). However, I don't think I owe it to him to actually call him and tell him what's up.
Now I'm fucking exhausted, of course. I had to wake up and figure out how to silence my ringer, which is no easy task when the calls are coming one after another with just seconds in between. Dammit!
Knowing he's still around and interested is kind of the last fucking thing I need right now.