Sink or Swim

People tell me I have a "White Knight" complex, which for the longest time I thought was some kind of snide reference to my failed attempt at creating a black-people helping wing of the KKK. Turns out it means that I desire to rescue girls. From themselves.

Time and pain have taught me that there's only one man who can save you: Joel Osteen, our new messiah.

I've dated several crazy girls in my pre-Joel (PJ) days, but I recall one girl in particular.

First date. Hot making out.

Second date. Things I found out (in alphabetical order):

~Abortions (Two).
~Abused.
~Debt.
~Drifting in life.
~Drugs ("Like, one time, I did so much coke my nose bled, it was awful")
~Military upbringing.
~Nervous Breakdown.
~Parents divorced.
~Suicide attempt(s).
~Witnessed own mother being raped.
~Zebra-meat smuggling. (Not really)

She insisted that she was ok now, just working through things. "I'm ok now," she would say, "I'm just working through things."

Now, I could pretend that I was just being a nice and accepting guy, but the truth is that she was SMOKIN' hot, and I will put up with a lot from a smokin' hot girl: So I keep dating her.

Furthermore, I am a total sap for a girl in emotional distress, or, rather, I was. I was just waking up from that phase, but I still felt guilty for wanting to drop this chick rather than save her. "Get offa me! Get your own life jacket!"

Seeing her name in my caller ID began to make my scrotum wince. I would only take her calls if I was in a store or the mall or somewhere loud and obviously public. "Yo yo yo WHUUZUP! Ha. Oh, cool! Cool. Cool. Haha, sweet, cool. Oop! Well, gotta go the cashier is waiting on me. Hm. Cool. No. Ok... No. Cool. No, ok. O... ok. Ok bye." And then I would give a "Whattayagonnado?" eye roll to the cashier.

Why did I hate her? Cause she needed me, and because I knew I could probably have helped her, if I wanted to.

A month into dating her, she calls me, sobbing breathlessly, "I... I made out with two guys at a party the first week we were dating, and, and, and, I'm.. I'm sorr.. sor.. sorryyy.. yyy!! It.. it was a long time ago.. and.. and, I really ll..llike you.. and.. I..."

I wasn't even really mad, more bewildered than anything. I remember flicking the pages the book I was reading when she called, anticipating the moment I would be free to resume reading. Frrrrip-frip-frip-frrrrrrip.

I told her, "Uh.. well, it seems you still have some things to work through. Um, if you ever need anyone to talk to, you know, call me."

I hung up and gave myself a high-five, "Yeah, I said NO to the hot crazy girl, yahaha. Now, back to Ivan, Dmitri and Alyosha and their complex and illuminating tragedy..."

She never called me again.

I felt bad about my caddish look-out-for-numero-uno behavior, but, I mean, we're not supposed to let people crucify us with their problems...

...Are we?

Ben the Cad: Hell no.
Ben the Christ: Heavens yes.

I often tell this story to guys when I first meet them, as something of a litmus test. Cool ones say, "SWEET! That worked out well!" Good ones say, "Wow, that's sad." I am mistrustful of any other response, especially those starting with, "Well, what you should have done is..."

She haunts my sexual fantasies to this day.