I didn’t respond. I wrote this instead.
Not long ago, at 7:00 AM on a Saturday, I woke up to a text that simply read: I was arrested.
No context. No apology. No “good morning.” Just another man in my life sending me his chaos like it belonged on my breakfast plate.
This wasn’t the first time. Or the second.
Last year, Miles spent months going back and forth to court in Missouri for hearings related to an order of protection against his ex, who had repeatedly threatened his life. He’s also been dodging calls from police in his hometown in Passaic County, New Jersey. They supposedly want to “ask a few questions” about a harassment case involving yet another man. To be fair, that one did sound like bullshit—if his version was to be believed. But still. The pattern is the pattern.
This time, the charge was public drunkenness. Miles was arrested at a street festival, thrown in solitary “to dry out,” and later hired a lawyer for $3,000 to try to make the charge go away. When I told him that was a privilege, he deflected. Rolled right past it. Just like always.
Miles has been seeing a guy named Dean—a former meth addict in his fifties. They’ve known each other maybe two months. Somehow, Miles says the arrest—and the relapse that followed—have made him feel better about this relationship.
Dean relapsed after Miles enabled his drinking, and then Dean ended up smoking crystal meth for two days. Miles’ justification? “Everyone fucks up” and “at least he didn’t have sex with anyone.” I told him to get everything in writing if he was serious about giving this guy another chance. He won’t. Of course he won’t. But he says he’s crazy about him. Says they’ve talked boundaries. Says they’re going to get married. Maybe raise children.
And don’t worry, he says—if Dean ever does this again, he’ll leave. Sure.
Dean, according to Miles, “is not white trash.” Whatever that means.
It’s also worth noting: Miles is a borderline alcoholic. There’s no denying it anymore. And not in the fun, tipsy-on-the-weekend way (or at least, not anymore). In the blurry nights, bad decisions, and waking up with handcuffs way. Nowadays he’s the kind of man who makes you wonder not if something bad will happen—but when. And this morning, it was at 6:41 AM Eastern / 5:41 AM Central. My guess? He spent the night in jail and texted me the moment he got out. Like I’m supposed to be shocked. Like I’m supposed to be relieved.
Meanwhile, I’m the one who redid his entire LinkedIn profile that he has yet to even glance at (“I’m not worried. I trust you!”). I’m the one who tried to support him when he was spiraling. I even gave him a copy of Salt Kiss for Christmas—a dark romance with teeth, full of people making terrible decisions in beautiful, cinematic ways. I thought he’d like it. I thought he might even see himself in it. But he’s never opened the book. Just like he’s never once read anything I’ve written, liked a post I’ve shared, or shown the bare minimum interest in what I do.
He thinks he’ll move to Dallas-Fort Worth to live with Dean and just land some great job in “customer service”—whatever that means to him. He’s said, out loud, that he doesn’t want anything “low-end.” And yet his résumé is flimsy, his experience is spotty, and his computer skills are practically nonexistent. He’s 34 and barely knows how to navigate the modern workplace. He doesn’t even grasp that he’s unqualified—because he’s never had to. The entitlement is staggering.
And then there’s his politics.
The smug parroting of right-wing talking points. He doesn’t discuss issues (although he thinks he does)—he recites slogans. “Why are leftists obsessed with protecting thugs?” he asked recently, like it was a clever observation and not a lazy, racist oversimplification. I used to ignore it. Smile through it. I’ve let so many moments like that pass just to avoid confrontation, just to preserve some imagined friendship that didn’t even serve me. He thinks we agree; I no longer have the energy to explain nuance to a man who won’t even let me finish a sentence.
Here’s the raw truth: I’ve spent years thinking, writing, and challenging myself to understand complexity. I believe in nuance, accountability, autonomy, contradiction. He believes in whatever gets the last word in a Facebook comment section. He doesn’t read. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t evolve. His worldview is one long eye roll wrapped in entitlement.
And I’m done pretending ignorance is harmless. I’m done pretending this is someone I relate to.
And here’s the kicker: I considered this person my best friend. Looking back, I must have been out of my damn mind.
Miles isn’t just emotionally chaotic. He’s lazy. Uncurious. Brash. Foolish. Desperate. Privileged. And maybe—just maybe—not very intelligent. Not in any way that matters. Not in any way that will help him navigate a world that no longer gives soft landings to unskilled men with delusions of grandeur.
And I’m done.
I am done being the emotional mule for other people’s crises. I am done performing calm for people who only text me when the sky is falling. I am done offering depth to people who only want surface-level connection until they’re drowning.
You can’t build your life around broken people and then act surprised when you’re the one left in pieces.
So no—I didn’t respond to Miles’s text. Not for hours. For once, I chose silence rather than get sucked into the role of emotional caretaker for an adult child.
Because I am not your rehab. I am not your therapist. I am not your emergency contact.
I am a writer. A builder. A person with shit to do.
What happens next is anyone’s guess. Maybe he’ll end up in jail. Maybe he’ll manage a Dunkin’ Donuts in a gay conservative outpost just outside Fort Worth. I don’t know, and I’m done caring. I can’t continue caring about someone who doesn’t care for himself.
Read my work, or don’t. But don’t text me from jail.
factorycandy 