If You Had a Bad Day, Mine Started With a Married Man Banging on My Window

MY DAILY JOURNAL

I don’t have time to write any more – my life is currently a shit show- so occasionally, when I really need to vent, I’ll upload a recording an/or other documentation to Chat GPT/ ask it to check my emails etc… and write a blog post/journal entry for the day.

Today, I requested all of the above and this was the result…

[LMAO]  Not trying to bitch, but Jesus Christ lol…

If You Had a Bad Day, Mine Started With a Married Man Banging on My Window

My day started with Dan banging on my window at 9:30 in the morning.

Not knocking on the door.

Not calling like a person with basic access to civilization.

Banging on my window.

Which made the dog lose its entire mind and woke up Xander, because apparently my child also needed to be enrolled in today’s emotional bullshit seminar before breakfast.

Now, for context, Dan was banging on my window because I had blocked him from everything.

And I had blocked him from everything because he told me he was talking to other girls.

And then, after I blocked him, he started emailing me.

So I reported him as spam.

Because if Gmail gives me a button that says, “Please remove this emotional ferret from my line of sight,” I am going to use the button.

So there he was.

At my window.

Because apparently when text, phone, email, and spam folder access are denied, the next logical communication method is residential glass harassment.

And this is where you need the relationship status report.

Dan and I are in one of those relationships that feels like it was assembled from fireworks, childhood trauma, sex, construction adhesive, bad timing, and two people who are smart enough to explain every problem and somehow too emotionally feral to stop creating new ones.

He is married.

Not “kind of married.”

Not “basically separated if you ignore the house, wife, children, and legal documents.”

Married-married.

Wife. Kids. Household. The whole domestic combo meal.

I am single. I live in my own house. I raise my kid. I do not have a spouse in the next room to process my feelings with. When Dan goes home, he goes home to a family system. When I go home, I go home to Xander, bills, dogs, work, chaos, and whatever financial grenade is waiting in my inbox.

So when I said maybe I should be allowed to date or at least keep some kind of option open, it was not because I was trying to become the town whore with a punch card.

It was because I am not going to sit alone in emotional layaway while a married man decides what level of commitment is convenient between school pickups and marital logistics.

He heard: “Summer has one foot out the door.”

I heard: “That is fascinating coming from a man whose other foot is legally inside a marriage.”

Then he told me he was talking to other girls.

And that was the part where my brain said, “Nope. We are done here. Shut the gates. Raise the bridge. Release the spam filter.”

So I blocked him.

Then he emailed.

Then I spammed him.

Then he came to my window.

And that was how my day began.

Not with coffee.

Not with meditation.

Not with a soft little morning routine where women in matching pajamas write gratitude lists and drink lemon water.

With a grown married man physically appearing at my window because I had blocked his access to argue with me.

And the most annoying part?

He was probably right about some of what he wanted to argue.

That is the kind of detail that makes a person want to peel their own face off.

Because yes, I can understand his side. I can understand why dating apps mess with him. I can understand why me talking to someone else feels like I’m keeping a backup generator running in case the Dan power grid fails again.

But here is the thing men apparently need written in sidewalk chalk:

You can be right about the emotional topic and still be wrong as hell for banging on someone’s window after they blocked you.

Especially when that someone has a kid asleep inside.

Especially when that someone specifically did not want to talk.

Especially when that someone’s life was about to become a financial, medical, emotional, and domestic escape room designed by Satan’s office temp.

Because after Dan kicked off the day with Windowgate, the rest of the universe said, “Cute. Let me show you escalation.”

I was broke as per usual, because apparently poverty is my longest-running situationship. I had tried logging into one of my personal accounts the other day and it didn’t work, but I was busy fighting and didn’t think anything of it.

That was my first mistake.

Never ignore a failed login when your life already has unpaid-bill energy.

This morning, my landlord texted me and said my rent didn’t go through.

Rent.

On the 12th.

And apparently after the 10th, they start sending eviction notices.

So now my morning is not just “Dan is banging on my window because I spammed him.”

It is also “my rent payment is missing and an eviction notice may be forming in the distance like a financial thunderstorm.”

I try to log in again.

Nothing.

I call the credit union.

I sit on hold forever.

Then some lady says she can’t access my account and has to transfer me to collections.

Collections.

For my own money.

Turns out, because I am a payment and a half behind on my car, they shut off access to my account.

A payment and a half.

Not six months.

Not “the car was last seen fleeing across state lines.”

A payment and a half.

They froze me out, blocked my rent payment, and sent a repo notice.

So now I am talking to the repo lady, and she asks about my hostility.

My hostility?

Ma’am, you shut down my money, blocked my rent, threatened my car, and forced me into a phone maze before noon. What exactly were you expecting? A flute solo?

Then they tell me because of the payment-plan setup, I can’t just pay it like a normal human. Since they already sent the repo notice, I have to agree to pay two full payments and a partial payment within three weeks.

Certified check only.

I ask if I can at least get my money out to pay rent.

They tell me I have to go to the branch.

Of course I do.

Because every problem today apparently requires me to physically appear somewhere like a contestant on The Amazing Race: Poor People Edition.

Then I remember I still have not gotten the pregnancy test I need for surgery tomorrow.

Yes.

Surgery tomorrow.

Pregnancy test today.

Rent blocked today.

Repo notice today.

Credit union hostage situation today.

Dan banging on the window today.

Kid awake today.

Dog activated today.

And right then, because the universe is a comedian with no health insurance, someone knocks on the door with the certified repo notice I have to sign for while the dogs are barking like the SWAT team has arrived.

Then I am supposed to meet Sid at 4:30 to go over a new job, but he texts at 12:30 asking to meet earlier because of something with his kid.

So now the schedule is shifting, my bank account is in prison, my landlord thinks I didn’t pay rent, my car is halfway to repo cosplay, my surgery needs proof I’m not pregnant, and my morning started with a window-banging relationship fugitive.

Then I get an email about the bid for the job I did for Thomas.

I send him a message asking if he’s alive.

His mom calls me.

Thomas is dead.

He killed himself.

So now I’m on the phone with his mom for an hour.

Because what are you supposed to do? Say, “Sorry, I need to go fight a credit union and process my married boyfriend’s window behavior”? No. You stay on the phone. You be human. You sit in someone else’s grief while your own life is actively smoking in the background.

And yes, Thomas being dead also means I am not getting the $450 I was counting on.

Which is obviously not the tragic part.

But broke people do not get the luxury of separating grief from math. They show up in the same room and stare at you.

Then I realize I have half an hour to drop Xander off and meet Sid.

I shower.

I see a zit in the mirror.

Repeatedly.

Because apparently even my face wanted to participate in the humiliation.

I go meet Sid. He wants to buy Adderall. He says he’ll give me an extra hundred dollars.

At this point, I am not living a day.

I am completing side quests in a video game called Financially Unstable Woman Simulator 2026.

So then I have to run back to my house to get pills, get the pregnancy test back where I started, then go to the bank to get access to my own money. When I finally make it to the bank, I sit in the drive-thru for half an hour while they get permission to let me access my own account.

My own account.

Then the lady throws a fit about giving me a certified check because she says they can’t access the account, even though I have another account.

So now I’m sitting there like, “Do you want the money or should I perform an interpretive dance called Please Do Not Take My Car?” or “I would really like to have a place to live next week!”

Meanwhile, Comcast and AT&T are messaging me about payments due, I am trying to set up an interview, and the AI/Meta beta team/job thing I’m doing is calling me.

My life is collapsing and networking at the same time.

Then Taylor comes over to talk about her stripper problems.

Because why wouldn’t she?

Why wouldn’t today also need a stripper-problem subplot?

Then Xander asks me how fish get into the mom’s eggs.

I tell him it is magical from God.

That was the best I had.

I apologize to science, but science was not available for comment.

Then Tee texts me.

Yes, Tee.

The same Tee who hated me last month with the concentrated force of a Sephora theft investigation.

She is now asking me for pictures of Bret.

My dead ex-boyfriend.

Who also recently died.

Because she needs help with his memorial.

So while I’m dealing with repo threats, rent panic, Dan’s window ambush, a dead client, surgery prep, bank hostage negotiations, job calls, stripper problems, fish reproduction theology, and a dog licking his asshole somewhere in the background, I am also being asked by last month’s enemy to dig through photos of my dead ex-boyfriend for a memorial.

That is not a day.

That is a psychological obstacle course designed by raccoons.

And then Dan is pissed.

Because of course he is.

Today’s Dan emails were basically the deluxe jealousy sampler platter.

He tells me he gets opportunities to get laid all the time and doesn’t take them.

He says if I want this to continue, I need to get off the dating app and stop talking to dudes, and then he’ll stop talking to girls.

He says if we took alcohol mostly out of the equation, we’d probably be fine.

He says he can’t make long-term plans with a girl who always has one foot out the door looking for her next best option.

Again.

Sir.

You are married.

I am not saying that to win every argument. I am saying it because it is a real, physical, legal, emotional fact standing in the middle of the room wearing boots.

You cannot go home to a wife and family and then act shocked that I want some kind of emotional escape hatch.

You cannot have an entire door, hallway, garage, spare bedroom, joint routine, and family structure with another woman and then accuse me of “one foot out the door” because I have an app on my phone.

Do I handle everything perfectly?

Absolutely not.

I am not here pretending I’m some peaceful woodland creature who communicates only through soft boundaries and herbal tea.

I get mean. I get reactive. I say things like they were loaded into a T-shirt cannon.

But there is a difference between me being difficult and me having absolutely no brain left because my day started with a man banging on my window after I blocked him, and ended with me explaining divine fish reproduction while trying to keep my car, my rent, my surgery, my job prospects, my grief, and my sanity from all catching fire at once.

By evening, the house was a disaster.

The sink looked like a crime scene.

Gnats were flying in my face from a cobbler on the counter.

There was ice cream here I didn’t order and didn’t have room for.

I somehow had enough butter for ten people.

The dog was licking his asshole.

Taylor took the rest of my Adderall to sell for $300.

Thomas was dead.

Bret was dead.

Tee needed memorial pictures.

Dan was arguing relationship law from the married-man bench.

My car was flirting with repossession.

My rent was blocked. 

My surgery needed proof I wasn’t pregnant.

And I had asked ChatGPT to check my email because apparently artificial intelligence is now my emotionally unavailable assistant manager.

So if your day was bad because someone used the wrong tone in a meeting, congratulations.

If your coffee was cold, light a candle.

If traffic was annoying, please thank every god available.

Because I am here at 11:30 at night, trying to read/edit this entry as a method of decompressing, but am instead having to explain to Dan that I just need a minute after his 5th time getting out of my bed, coming out and saying “you know, if you need some time, I understand, I can go home and let you have some- No motherfucker! If you actually gave a shit about my sanity you would just go to fucking bed and leave me alone (e.g. not be trying to hold a pitty party because he needs to feel wanted all the time). Please note I explained my situation to this fucker before he came over and told him he should probably stay home, “I am unstable at the moment and have no patience”.

I am literally laughing out loud like a crazy person right now – HAHAHAHA

Field note:

When a married man bypasses the spam folder by appearing at your window at 9:30 in the morning, and later that same day you are dealing with repo notices, rent panic, suicide, surgery, stripper problems, dead-ex memorial photos, bank warfare, fish reproduction, gnats, random ice cream, and a dog asshole — maybe the issue is not that you are dramatic.

Maybe the issue is that your life is being written by unpaid HBO interns, a repo department, and one emotionally impatient man who treats blocked communication like a scavenger hunt.

…

Why does the sound of the bed squeaking from him throwing himself around like a fucking toddler make me want to stab someones eyes out??