After three weeks of bliss — which included nine dates, several of Mark's morning smoothies, one epic Scrabble battle, plus daily texts, e-mails, and phone calls — Mark disappeared.

I wondered what I did wrong. Should I have been more cheerful or less available? Was I not cultured enough for a man fluent in three languages? Was my blow-job technique subpar?

To find out, I drunk-dialed him. (He didn't answer.)

Next came full days spent Googling. I was looking for a photo of his ex, with whom I was sure he'd reunited. I knew her first name was Jennifer and that she was an actress, so I tried "actress jennifer new york." Then I tried his full name and her first, etc. Nothing.

A friend set me up with Michael, who took me for sushi. When he asked, "Do you date much?" I launched into a detailed account of me and Mark, and sought Michael's opinion on what went wrong. Later, as we said good night, he nearly tripped as he backed away from me. That's when it hit me. I was that stone-cold Glenn Close crazy person who can't get over a guy.

Finally, I wrote Mark an e-mail. "I wish you had the decency to let me know you didn't want to see me anymore instead of leaving me wondering." It took three days to write. I forwarded it to friends. I read it over the phone to another ex. "Yep," he said. "That would make me feel like shit."

I clicked "Send." I dwelled, I fantasized, I waited. Finally, I stopped waiting.

A drink in the face? I get it. Angry text messages? Girl, I understand. Slashed tires? Seems a bit extreme, but who am I to judge? I'm crazy.

Photo by Johann Helgason

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