Introducing: Mr. Broken Mic

Vibing with Mr. Broken Mic 

Everyone loved his music, but no one heard the silence when the show was over. The mic worked fine. It was the man holding it who was broken. 

If we’d talked about this a few months ago I would have told you that Mr. Broken Mic destroyed me. Now I won’t give him that credit. I destroyed myself. I saw signs of the impending train wreck over and over again, but for some reason, didn’t do anything to stop it. 

It started as the most fun I’d had in a long time and ended with me learning how far someone could hide behind their persona. 

I had just said my final goodbye to Mr. Hometown Anti-Hero. For the first time in years, I wasn’t reserving space in my heart for him. It was wide open. I wanted to see what was out there, so I downloaded a dating app.

Almost instantly, Mr. Broken Mic’s profile popped up. He was interesting, silly, and felt like a good palette cleanser. I never could have predicted the direction it would go. 

His prompt? “We’ll get along if you like a silly goose time.” 

My response? “🙏” 

We matched right away. The banter flowed naturally and he kept making me smile through my screen. 

I had to leave town before we could meet. First work, then holidays with family, with a quick stop back in LA in between. We texted the whole time I was away. We sprinkled in several FaceTimes, many of which lasted three or more hours. Zero awkwardness, just losing track of time being silly and vibing. 

He was so weird. But it worked because so was I.

I’d heard someone say once that the goal with love is to find someone whose weird matches yours. That’s what I found with Mr. Broken Mic. The parts of me I usually kept reserved were not just free but accepted. Encouraged. 

After keeping so much of my heart to myself for so long, it felt amazing to be able to let those parts go and be validated with reciprocation. 

I was home for twelve hours. 

Normally, I never let men come to my house the first time we meet, but Mr. Broken Mic didn’t feel like a stranger. I broke my rule.  

I was a little nervous. What if we’d just spent all this time texting and FaceTiming only for it to not translate to how we meshed together offline? 

He showed up to my house and, despite being shorter than I expected, had the same silly energy. The smirking smile I recognized from FaceTime endeared me to him. He had a swagger about him. Covered in tattoos, yet maintained a sweetness in his face. 

We talked on my couch for hours — about nothing yet saying everything. He let me tattoo him. A little smiley face on his wrist. 

This man was so carefree. 

Which would turn out to be a problem. He didn’t care about anything. I had mistaken it for a laid-back, vibrant attitude when, in reality, it was just apathy. 

I went away again for Christmas and New Year’s. We kept talking daily. He showed me inside his world. Sent me unreleased songs, talked about his family, vented about his friends, FaceTimed me for hours, told me how much he liked me. 

He was showing up with intention every day. 

He was also oozing with talent. His songs were honest, and the voice he sang them with was sultry and warm. He didn’t even mention his songwriting credits, which, when I got to know him, revealed themselves in small ways like the platinum record plaque tossed on his desk. He was so nonchalant, and I admired his humility. The more I asked, the more I learned this man was all over the charts.

The combination of talent and lack of ego was so attractive. I couldn’t help but be drawn in.

The first red flag slid right past me. One night on FaceTime I asked him his attachment type. He didn’t know, so he took a quiz he’d found on a quick web search. I noted what a good sport he was, so it didn’t really register when he said his results came back: “Anxious Avoidant.” 

So much of what he’d shown me was the opposite. 

Therein lies the problem with dating through a phone before really knowing someone in person. I didn’t know he always had his phone in his hand and liked having someone to text. I didn’t know that likely wouldn’t translate to in-person attention span or presence. 

It’s easy to show up when all you have to do is send a text or FaceTime at night when you’d be alone anyway. 

I let myself believe that because this man wrote emotionally vulnerable songs that meant he would be able to be emotionally available in person. 

A person couldn’t write those words and not be self-aware, right? 

Wrong. 

When I got back to LA after the holidays we saw each other almost every day. For a month or so it was good. 

We did things that tapped into my nostalgia: a beach day in Malibu with our dogs, late-night drives to the views on Mulholland, cooking dinner together. It was sweet. And always fun. I felt light with him. 

Then came the second red flag. 

I was having a bad mental health day. We had plans, but I told him I was feeling anxious and just wanted to take it easy. He was supportive, offered to come to my house and watch a movie. He just had family dinner first. 

We talked on the phone right before his dinner. He said he was heading out, then hung up when his cousin was outside to pick him up. A little over an hour later, he texted that he couldn’t meet up. His dog was sick from both ends and had made a mess. He’d even sent a photo. 

The photo didn’t show much but the metadata did. It was geotagged and time stamped. He was home 40 minutes after we hung up. 

It didn’t add up. Going from his house to Beverly Hills — where he said dinner was — was at least a 30 minute drive one way. So for him to have driven to and from dinner would have been an hour, let alone with eating dinner in between. There’s no way he would have been home that quickly if he had really gone. 

My anxiety spiked. 

I knew he was lying. But what do I do? I needed to see for myself. 

He didn’t want to leave his “sick” dog so I offered to come over. He resisted, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

Finally, he agreed. 

When I arrived, there was no sign of any sickness. The dog was fine — eating, drinking, and happy to see me. There was no stain or smell. 

I knew right then the whole thing was made up. What I didn’t know was how deep the lies would go.