Mars, Range Rovers, and Other Drunk Promises

I radiate calm energy. Yet drama insists on acting like we’re in a situationship.

I’m a pretty chill person by default truly. But somehow, drama always finds a way to flirt with me. Today, it practically banged on my gate at 6:30am.

It’s Sunday. I’m sick. And trying to sleep in. But then my phone rings.

Guess who?
A guy from home. We’ve texted occasionally mostly boring gig-related stuff. The last time we really talked was November 2024, when he asked if black magic was real or just a mindset thing. (Yes, he’s that guy. A total nerd. Talking to him usually requires a helmet and some mental padding.)

He says he’s at the gate. That alone is weird enough. But I figure it’s good timing I’d promised his mom I’d try talking to him about this thing we have in church, and maybe he’s there for that.

I shuffle to the gate, still drowsy, still congested. I try unlocking it, but fail so we end up talking through the tiny metal gap like it’s a prison visitation booth.

His opening line?

“I’ve spent eight f*king hours outside your gate.”

He’s tall. He has that tragic-hero energy like he’s always carrying the weight of the world. His words come out like they’ve been taxed heavily at customs.

I blink. “Okay… did you bring the church money?”

He ignores me completely. Eyes dramatic. Voice low. He continues:

“No Range Rover. No Mercedes. No Limo. No Rolls Royce. Just me. Eight f**king hours. And no one even came out to check.”

My brain is lagging. What do cars have to do with anything?
I go, “Well, this is shagz. And also people aren’t exactly psychic.”

Still nothing. It’s like I’m on airplane mode.

“Val… I’ve waited eight f**king hours for you.”

I ask, “Only eight? Not even years?”

That’s when it hits me this man is drunk. And I’m in trouble.

“I know you think I’m insane,” he says.

I respond, “Not insane. Just careless.”

He tells me he’s obsessed with Range Rovers, and he’s going to get me a black one. I’ll always ride shotgun, no debate not even from his mom.
I tease back, “I prefer your mom keeps the passenger seat. You can get me my own.”

He snaps, “Our car, not your car.”

I ignore that one. We’re spiraling.

He hands me his phone. “I don’t believe in passwords,” he declares.
I deadpan, “Well… you better start. Privacy, my guy.”

Then comes the grand statement;
“No man will ever afford what I can give you.”

I just stare. Because what is happening? It’s 7am. I’m sick. He’s kneeling like he’s about to propose. It’s giving Sci-Fi Romance, but the Wasted Version.

Then he says, “In 10 years, I won’t be on this planet. I’ll be on Mars. I’m working on that.”

I go, “Will you take me with you?”

He ignores that (again) and circles back to his thesis statement; that he’s loved me since Grade 2. For 12 years. And I was inaccessible.

I tell him, “Yeah… maybe I was inaccessible because I was 7. Also, it wasn’t called grade, it was class. And no, it hasn’t been 12 years since then.”

But the speech continues. Something about being the only man who can give me everything I’ve ever wanted.
I’m officially cringing now.

So I gently say, “As much as I’d love to keep this jaba story party going, I need you to leave. Clean up. Rest. Then we can talk sober. Look at my face… I’m not being rude.”

He whispers, “I don’t have a home. Home is here. Where my heart is.”

In my head, I go “yooooooh!”

I ask if he’ll come to church later. His eyes light up like a Christmas tree;

“You… want to go with me? Together?”

Then he adds, “I don’t believe in religion. Or Jesus. But I believe in God.”

I don’t dare touch that one. I just say, “Cool. Just don’t forget to send the church money.”

Then he looks at me and goes, “Val… you’re a solid one.”

And I won’t lie. That one made me smile. In my head. He doesn’t know me like that though.

Thing is anytime we meet, our convos never go beyond hi and bye. I’ve never seen him drunk. He’s never seen my resting bitch face. I’m usually painfully kind. But I realize if I don’t firm up, this story won’t end. So I put on my Big Girl Face and tell him, kindly but firmly, to leave.

He shrugs, “Home is where the heart is,” and walks off not even in the direction of their home.

Should I worry? Maybe. But he’s an adult. I hope he’s okay. I’ll call later.
His mom; she’s actually a close friend of mine. Super stylish and classy. One of those cool moms.

I’m kind of past the phase where I care about what people think but if anyone saw him outside our gate this morning, spilling Range Rover confessions and love-from-Grade-2 declarations… I’d be curious to hear their version.

To be clear: he said a lot but never once crossed a line. He wasn’t inappropriate. Just… lost in his own little fantasy. And I told him I’d write about it. So here we are.

Could’ve been worse. At least I’m not a TikTok girlie. 😌

PS:
The only part that really stuck with me beyond the comedy was his insistence that he’d been there eight hours.
That hit a nerve. In 2022, we lost his brother. He spent the night out in the cold… and didn’t make it.

I reminded him of that. He brushed it off. But I meant it.

I hope he gets home. I hope he’s okay.
And I hope he sobers up soon because even Mars doesn’t have space for this kind of energy.

Cheers

Author: Miss Injairu

This is my best kept muse. Have fun. View all posts by Miss Injairu