Never trust a man named Roger.

I was watching the first episode of the Mindy Project when I realized, much like that quirky doctor, I too was on clear path towards happiness. I was really enjoying my successes and truly embracing singledom. But unlike Mindy, I didn’t have that cool, hip apartment in which to drink wine with my girlfriends or lounge on the couch in my sweatpants. Instead, I lived in an overpriced frat house run by a bunch of women too ugly to be strippers and too dumb to be baristas. Don’t get me wrong, the place served as one hell of a chastity belt since I was too embarrassed to bring anyone home with me (sober). But if I ever wanted to get laid again(sober), I needed a plan to get the hell out of my apartment.

First, I needed to find a new place to live. This task proved relatively easy. In no time, I found myself a fabulous duplex with a fenced in backyard and cool lesbian neighbors. I could feel my street cred as a liberal increasing by the minute. I pictured summers full of backyard bbq’s and endless games of softball. Allison and Joy would help me put up new bookshelves while I vacuumed out their Subaru. I needed this place like I needed air.

Next, I needed to convince someone that the Meridian was actually the Ritz Carlton and sublease my place. It was my first experience with Craigslist. Sure, I was glued to the TV during Lifetime’s Craigslist Killer, but I had never put myself in a vulnerable position by actually posting something on there. However, my desperation to leave the Meridian outweighed my fear of having my kidneys stolen and I posted an ad for my place.

Within hours, I received a message from Roger. He was moving to Columbus and was interested in my place. I was elated. In fact, I hadn’t been this happy to receive a voicemail from a man since Jordan from Saks told me my nude Tory Burch flats had arrived. I was overwhelmed with angst and excitement as I returned Roger’s call. What if he didn’t like me? What if he thought my voice was annoying? I had to remind myself that I wasn’t trying to date Roger, but rather trick him into subleasing my shithole of an apartment. I almost hung up the phone out of sheer neurosis , but my fears disappeared with the simple words “this is Roger.” Roger had that charming Southern twang that was more Matthew McConaughey and less Honey Boo Boo. He was a 28 year stock broker from West Virginia who was relocating to Columbus and needed a place to live where he could meet other young professionals. I’m not sure if it was the intoxication from his charming voice or the overwhelming sense of excitement at the thought of getting out of the Meridian that kept me from seeing the first huge red flag. A stock broker living in West Virginia? I wasn’t aware that good old wild and wonderful was a hotbed for the financial industry, but thought nothing of it at the time.

For the next 40 minutes, I blabbered on and on about the joys of the Meridian and Columbus in general. I gave him the low down on everything…from the best bars to go to (obviously all within walking distance of the Meridian) to the best grocery stores in town (clearly the Giant Eagle on the corner of fifth and grandview). By the end of the conversation, Roger was not only ready to take the place sight unseen, but take me up on my offer to show him around Columbus. As we hung up the phone, we made plans to get together that Sunday to tour my apartment and perhaps my pants.

That night, I went to bed with a huge smile on my face. I wondered if Roger was cute? What if we really hit it off we he came to visit? Not only was there the potential of getting out of my shitty apartment, but the potential of getting a boyfriend out of all of this. I fell asleep that night, dreaming of telling our future children how mommy and daddy first met…Craigslist. Ok, it sounded more romantic in my head at the time, but for the first time in months, I was truly excited about something and it felt good.

I spent the better part of my weekend cleaning my apartment, which consisted mostly of trying to neatly stack the boxes I hadn’t even unpacked since moving in and cleaning up the beer bottles and Taco Bell that lingered in the hallway from the night before. I had already secured my new place and even dropped off a security deposit. By the time Sunday rolled around, I hadn’t heard from Roger yet. I shot him a text and received no response. Like a good stalker, I followed up with an email and yet heard nothing back. In typical Brooke fashion, I made an excuse for his irresponsible and frankly rude behavior. He was just probably really busy brokering hedge funds and working on portfolios (no idea what any of tha means, totally made it up).

But when Tuesday rolled around and I still hadn’t heard from, I felt a sense of disappointment set in and began to question where I had gone wrong. Had I come onto too strong? Did I make a bad joke? This overwhelming sense of disappointment coupled with self doubt was all too familiar of a feeling to me. During my relationship my ex, I was constantly feeling disappointed, yet blaming myself for his bad behavior. And as my future with my hip lesbian neighbors faded in the distance, I decided I was no longer going to blame myself for others bad behavior. Fuck you, Roger and your mouth full of marbles. I trusted you and you didn’t even have the courtesy to let me know you were no longer interested in my place. You took the coward’s way out and i hope your tiny balls fuse together and you never get laid again. Even you sir are not good enough for the Meridian. (I clearly have some pent up, although misplaced anger.)

And as I tripped over empty beer cans and stale vomit upon entering my old apartment, I just shook my head thinking, “at least I still have my kidneys.” Roger that.