Deleted member 3202
Motivatemaxxing
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This is demoralizing, I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't even imagine how I'd feel if this were to happen to me. I hope you feel better man.I will preface this story by saying up-front:
This one does not end well for me.
Almost two years ago, I had a profile on OKCupid. Yes, I know – if Tinder and Bumble have devolved into cesspools, then OKC is a radioactive waste dump, but that’s what I was doing, so just go with it.
The pickings on that app are slim, but even among the lookers, the worst part is that it’s a desert of homogeneity. You know what I mean: landwhales who don’t know what “curvy” means, and cardboard cutouts too braindead to speak to anything besides how much they like dogs, food, and The Office. A wasteland.
My eyes have glazed over one morning when I'm on the app and I nearly swipe left on a profile. I stop and scroll through it. She’s pretty – not perfectly so – but different. She’s used a handle instead of her first name, and she’s written a few short sentences about things like Byzantine fault tolerance, the Library of Alexandria, and how she’s going to change the world. I look at her pictures again. There is a quality of intelligence in her eyes that eludes the edges of description. Sad? Worldly? Godlike, even? I don’t know. But I am intrigued, and I am ravenous for anyone who can still intrigue me.
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I am experienced enough to know that even if you look good, swiping and hoping means nothing on an app like that. And for reference, I am mostly pleased with how I look at this point: I was still waiting on facial fat grafts and was frauding with a bit of makeup in the meantime, but I had racked up a stack of triple-digit likes from average and below girls already.
This girl, however, is different. She will require a special touch to yield the response I desire – and I sense it will be worth it.
I get to work on finding out everything about her, convinced I’ll unearth something I can use that will be guaranteed to catch her eye. I am skilled at this, as I bet many of us are, but I haven’t done it or needed to in a long time, and I feel somewhat subhuman soiling my hands with such a task. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to matter at first. Reverse image searches, social media, and the like all come up empty.
I think to try her handle instead. It’s a unique username, but not entirely so, and the search returns a few Instagram accounts, Facebook posts, etc. that make reference to it. I can quickly tell they’re not her and don’t bother investigating beyond the first few. I continue to tab through several pages of search results. Eventually, I spot a potential hit: a nearly identical username shows up in an archive of a clearweb proxy for an onion address. It’s a cached post from a darkweb message board.
The poster has written how they want to buy an unregistered gun and are asking for sources. Their own replies in the thread go on to provide a surprisingly naive number of details about their life. I cross-check what they’ve said with elements of the girl’s profile – her location, age, and linguistic style – and it really does sound like her.
I fire up Tor and revisit the message board. I find the account again and comb through the rest of this person’s posts. They discuss intimate involvement in things like credit card fraud, PayPal scams, and fraudulent bank transfers. I digest everything, hearing the wheels in my own head turning. I mull it over for a minute, then decide: I have what I need, and I cannot help but laugh.
There is theoretically a small risk with what I am about to do, especially since she may have a gun and my personal information and pictures are on the app, but the worst probable result is that I am wrong about her identity and simply get blocked or ignored.
I compose a message carefully written to catch her attention in an unignorable way: I lay out, in all caps at the top of the message, a list of every crime she had elsewhere admitted to committing. “There’s no point in denying it, so let’s skip that part,” I go on to write. I then tell her I could go to the police about what’s she done, but she seems interesting and I would genuinely rather meet her. Finally, I add that if she doesn’t believe that I would pursue this with the authorities, she should think again, because apparently I was already willing to go so far as to dig up dirt on someone I didn’t even know, so there’s no telling how much further I’d take things. Autismmax.me, indeed.
I send the message and wait. Realistically speaking, there’s an extremely low chance that’d she even see my message, much less respond to it, so I’ve likely built this up a lot more in my head than it it’s worth.
Three days pass. Then I hear back from her.
Her reply is two lines long:
She says she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
And she asks where I would like to meet.
I’m in disbelief but I don’t say anything to betray it. After a little back and forth, we agree to meet that weekend at a coffee shop near her, in this giant indoor marketplace with lots of vendors and foot traffic. She lives in a city an hour’s drive away from me, but I needed a location where she couldn’t get away with putting a bullet in my head too easily, in case that’s what I was walking into. I also figured I had kind of blackmailed her, so the least I could do was go to her instead of making her come to me.
The day comes and I arrive early at the coffee shop. I grab a chair at the intersection of four different ways to enter the seating area so she can see me no matter which way she comes in. I wait. Our agreed meeting time passes with no indication that she’s arrived. Soon, she is 5, 10, 15 minutes late. I decide to message her on OKC when she messages me first.
Her message tells me to go outside, to the street. I have to walk around a few times since it’s my first time in the area, but I find where she’s talking about. There’s a car idling at the curb. I walk toward it but keep my distance. No, I’m not low inhib, I just don’t want to get fucking shot. I tilt my head down to try to peer through the passenger window, and it rolls down.
It’s her.
“Hi there,” I say from like 10 feet away.
“Hello,” she says.
“Are… you coming in, or what?” I ask.
She asks me in turn if I can just get in her car.
“Are you kidding? Fuck no,” I laugh. This shit is ridiculous, and part of me starts to regret this harebrained plan.
I tell her to park her fucking car and come inside.
I go back to wait in the coffee shop. A few minutes later, she comes over to my table and sits down.
She’s 5’7” and looks pretty much like her pictures. She is quite thin, almost noticeably so. Nose has an unusual bump, which you can see, but something about it makes me appreciate her, as perfection can randomly send me into a rage. Her eyes are stunning. She’s got a grey t-shirt with a sort of micro-corduroy texture that I still remember, and black pants – there are no slutty vibes at all.
Also, no, she does not have big boobs.
She is on edge. I try to break the ice without explicitly apologizing for scaring her into coming. As we all know, unless you’ve just run over her puppy or something, never tell a woman you’re sorry. She tells me she thought I was the police, or that I wasn’t real.
I brush it off; she seemed smart enough, I say, to appreciate the amount and unique type of effort I put into getting her attention; average girls would run for the hills. She laughs softly and says “Mhm.” It seems to resonate with her.
I don’t know exactly what to do, so I decide to just proceed as though if everything about this situation were normal, and begin trying to get to know her. I tell her a mix of things about myself and ask her whatever comes naturally to me. She isn't bothered by this, and I cannot explain it since I’ve only experienced this feeling two other times in my life, but within ten or so minutes, things simply flow between us. She opens up about astronomy, her coding projects, how she was orphaned, her love of baking, and how she plans to change the world. For my part, I am a rapt listener: she fascinates me, and intuitively, I just know things about her – what she means and where’s she coming from – and she feeds off of that. We sit at the table and pass the time for about an hour this way. The topics of the police, or her crimes, or how I got her to meet me never come up again.
After an hour, my butt is sore from sitting. I tell her, “Let’s walk around.” There are a lot of things to see in this marketplace, and I’ve never been. Interestingly to me, I normally don’t give a shit about this kind of stuff, but I don’t mind being there this time. I’ve so far also not felt inclined to turn on any intentional charm. I wonder why, and realize slowly that I think I’m genuinely enjoying her company; it’s bizarre that it would be in these circumstances, but I’m getting to be myself with someone for the first time in a long time.
We walk around and continue talking. Maybe half an hour in, I make some wisecrack about something at one of the shops. She laughs sweetly – she has a soft laugh that lilts up a note at the end – and reaches over to hold my hand. To be frank, I snap out of the moment for a split-second and am shocked, but then I relax and let it happen. She intertwines our fingers and loops her arm through mine, and doesn’t let go the rest of the afternoon. Again, I cannot explain how, but it feels natural, and it is a moment I will never forget.
I walk her back to her car when we’re done. My car’s parked in a different structure, and she offers to drive me back.
When we get to my car, she parks and just kind of stares straight ahead, not saying anything.
For all my boldness in orchestrating this, I don’t know how to end this blackmail-turned-date, so I sit there too.
“Well,” I begin. She leans in and starts making out with me.
I’ve learned to suspend my surprise by now. She’s also a very good kisser, or perhaps it’s that we’re very in sync while kissing. Some people you’re not compatible with, but she was a good balance of everything; assertive, but giving too.
When we finish, she puts her hand on my leg and lowers her head a bit toward my crotch, looking up at me.
“Can I?” she says. For anyone I’m about to lose: I assure you, I’m not making this up.
This is much more than I was prepared for, and I decline. I actually don’t like normal blowjobs, where I’m just sitting there passively; I need to be actively fucking someone’s throat to be interested in it.
“But,” I venture, “maybe we can pick things up next weekend?”
She kisses me again and says OK.
I collect myself for a moment. “I have to tell you,” I say, “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”
She laughs and says “Well, I did think you’re insane, but you’re also really hot.”
The following Saturday, I text her first thing when I wake up. I have thought about her all week.
“Hey”
“Hey”
“Want to come over”
“Yeah I’ll see you around 10:30”
“K”
It was a thing of beauty to me how little need be said between us so early in knowing each other.
I drive an hour again to meet her and I spend the day at her apartment. It’s perfect. A little messy in a cute way. Lots of books, clothes, and functional things strewn about. None of that crap average girls have, like pillows embroidered with “Live, Laugh, Love.” There is also lots of sunlight.
We talk and I help her make brownies (not special brownies; I don’t fucking do drugs.) I’m not a fan of sweets, but she’s gone to the effort to make them from scratch, and she claims to be good at baking. I have a few and she isn’t lying. Because my lower jaw is still numb from surgery, I miss some chocolate smeared on my chin. “Aww,” she laughs, and wipes it, and something about it just then is surreal to me. Yes, I of course never imagined this would come from threatening to report a cybercriminal to the police, but part of me also never thought I would have an experience like this altogether – I thought it would just be hookups with girls I felt contempt for forever.
When we finish eating, she takes me to her bedroom.
I’ll skip the details as I’m sure everyone’s sick of hearing about my sex life.
The one thing I will say though is this:
I’ll always remember lying in her bed after we had finished, an arm draped over her, the sun filtering down on us through the trees outside her window. She takes my hand and playfully tries to get up – she uses cash everywhere (she withdraws thousands a week) and has to go to the bank before they close. I pull her back down and tell her I just want us to stay here. She laughs and finally yanks me, grumbling but unable to hide my smile, out of bed. She slips on nothing but an oversized sweater and shoes and says “Come on!” with a wave as she leaves the room. I sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she goes. Something about the whole moment just stuck with me. I see now that I didn’t want it to end. I was happy. And though I didn’t know it yet, I was in love with her.
That began a trend of seeing her every weekend, and then, weekdays too.
Before I knew it, we had been dating for 8 months. Those were the happiest months of my life.
The last time I saw her, we went for a walk through the hills overlooking the city where she lived. We reached a great vista after a bit of a hike and stopped to take in the view.
She gazed out at the city the whole time we were up there, almost like I wasn’t there. She was talkative in bursts, and then wouldn’t say anything for a while. She spoke about random things, seemingly as the ideas came to her, as if she were thinking aloud. Some of the things she said were about me; what specifically she said, though it was nothing of great significance, I would like to keep to myself, as those words are among the final memories I have of her.
We spent two hours up there, and she was shivering before long. We were dressed warm, but it was nearly dusk, and she always got cold easily. It was actually kind of cute because she always tried to talk and behave normally through her teeth chattering. I suggested a few times that we get going before it got much colder – and truth be told, I was getting a little restless – but she kept saying “Just a little while longer,” so eventually I let it go.
When I could wait no longer, I made up an excuse and told her I had to be home by a certain time and needed to get home. “OK,” she said a couple of times. “OK.” We got up from the bench we were on and made the trek back to her car. I distinctly remember her not taking my hand on the long walk down.
She drove us back to her apartment, where I had parked. During the drive, she smiled.
She had one hand on the wheel and was back to holding my hand super tightly with the other.
When we got back to her place, I kissed her goodbye for a few minutes.
Then I got out and waved to her as I walked to my car.
The next day, though I didn't know it at the time, she killed herself.
I found out after the fact, and with some difficulty. I didn’t text her for a few days following our last meeting. When I did, several days passed without a response. I called as well and it went to voicemail. I figured at first that she might have gone overseas: she traveled a lot and would use a different SIM, and it had happened once before. That time, I had got a hold of her by email, so I tried that this time as well.
A few days of radio silence turned into a month. She never responded to my email, so I drove to her apartment and knocked on her door. No one responded, and though she had asked me to move in with her a couple of times over the months, I didn't have a key. The neighboring tenants were no help, and as I stated before, she was an orphan, so she had no family to speak of. I didn’t know what else to do, so I waited the whole day there in front of her door. No one ever came in or out.
I didn’t sleep much during those weeks, and on my face I think it took a permanent toll. I spent all my time cycling through all the possibilities in my mind: did she get hurt? Did some of this shady business she was involved in come back to bite her? And I feel bad now for having considered it, but did she simply just ghost me? I became frenzied trying to figure out what had happened.
Desperation eventually brought me back to her darkweb activity. I pulled up the old message board where she had posted before, hopeful for any clues. I knew she had mentioned something about a gun when I first found her, and I wondered if that had anything to do with this.
It turns out that it did. She had made several posts elaborating on the one I stumbled upon 8 months prior – the one in which she had been asking how to purchase an unregistered gun. These later posts detailed her desire to use that gun to kill herself. I read with pain how many responses urged her not to do it. They told her to think of and lean on her loved ones. They told her the future would be worth it. But she ignored them, and had posted about her intent to go through with it as recently as 20 days before I last saw her.
I requested a death certificate as soon as I could to confirm my suspicions, but really, I already knew the truth.
And when it arrived in the mail, and I held it in my hands, whatever closure it brought could do nothing to ease one feeling:
The sickening pain I felt when I realized that I never told her that I loved her.
There are many lessons to be learned from this, but to keep it relevant and end on a lighter note:
You can be insane, but if you’re hot, that’s all that matters.
@Amnesia @Vidyacoper @AleksVs @forwardgrowth @Speedy @ht-normie-ascending @diggbicc @Norwooder @karbo @Patient A @HumidVent @ScramFranklin @Hopelessmofoker @Ethnicshit @kilgrave @JizzFarmer @laske.7 @baruch @middayshowers @Darkstrand @didntreadlol @Swescension @Moneymaxxed @kms_currycell @nastynas @Slayerullah @Got the hunter eyes @GigaTyroneOrDeath @LayDownAndCope @PrisonMike @ProjectAscension @WhatToDo @EternalLearner @BigBoy @sloopnoob @Slayerino
this isn’t working, I’m breaking up with you”
