Dating is all fun and games, until you fall in love with someone who belongs in an institution for the criminally insane. It all started the usual way: I met a handsome stranger, he smiled at me, discreetly asked for my phone number, I tried my best to ignore the tingly sensation between my legs, provided him with my sister’s phone number (for some inexplicable reason) and made a hasty exit.
He called soon after, and my sister handed me the phone, with one eyebrow raised; I sheepishly obliged, and the rest was your garden variety of ‘butterflies in the stomach,’ followed by the stuff of nightmares.
Everything was hunky dory for the first six months, and then my false sense of independence led me to accept a part-time job. Between my classes and the job, the time we used to waste in the name of love got significantly diminished. At first, he offered a very ‘pragmatic’ solution – that I stay up till five in the morning talking to him on the phone to make up for lost time. I tried. I failed. He reprimanded me by introducing me to every profanity available in his limited vocabulary. It was so sudden, that I was dumbstruck. I decided at once to break up with him. Unfortunately, I had no idea that the decision to break up and get back with him would last another four and a half years. Read more