A narcissist’s entitlement.

entitlement

It’s already happening.

I talked to my daughter’s friend Paul last night, and he sounded a little grumpy. Hypervigilant as always, in my black, paranoid mind I imagined my MN ex Michael, who just moved in Paul’s house a few days ago, had already convinced Paul I was an evil, treacherous, narcissistic, selfish female troglodyte not worth the time of day (because he projects all his character defects onto me), and that was the reason for the grumpiness. Of course! What else could it be!? Of course it was narcissistic of me to assume Paul’s grumpiness had anything to do with me anyway, but that’s how hypervigilant and paranoid an Aspie victim of narcissistic abuse can get.

Moving on, it wasn’t that at all. Of course it wasn’t. How silly of me to think it was. If I had a quarter for every time my stupid hypervigilance makes an idiot of me, I would be a wealthy woman instead of a poor one.

No, Paul was grumpy because of Michael. He asked me if Michael always acted so entitled, which caused me to burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter. I had already warned Paul the way Michael wanted what he wanted when he wanted it, and that he never lifted a finger around the house, expecting to be waited on like some sort of golden God. After the peals of laughter subsided, I asked him what happened.

Paul said Michael had offered to order Chinese food for dinner (with Paul paying, of course, because Michael was broke as always), so Paul gave him the money to give to the driver and didn’t cook anything. Then Paul went out for awhile, expecting Chinese food when he returned.

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Instead, when Paul returned at 9:30, he found Michael fast asleep on the couch. There was no Chinese food anywhere in sight. Paul woke Michael up and asked where the food was. Instead of apologizing and acting embarrassed, Michael said, “I thought you were picking up the food.”
“I gave you the money. Why would I pick up the food if I gave you the money?” was Paul’s reply.
The money was balled up in a wad on the table, next to a ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, debris from Michael’s jeans pocket, and a pot pipe. Besides being lazy and entitled, Michael is also a slob.
Paul was angry.
“I thought you said you had to eat right away because of your diabetes. But here you are sleeping instead.”
“It’s not my fault. I should have eaten hours ago. When I don’t eat, I can’t stay awake.”
“But I gave you the money to order Chinese food.” He pointed to the money on the table.
“Well, SORREE, you don’t have to give me attitude about it. Go ahead and order it then.”
“That’s not the point. You said YOU were going to order it. I would have picked it up myself if I knew this would happen. Now they’re closed and it’s too late to go back out.”
Michael sat up and lit the pot pipe. “Here, have some pot. You need to chillax.”
“I DON’T WANT ANY DAMN POT. I’m hungry. I want something to eat.”
“Well, then why don’t you cook something?”
Paul looked at Michael like he had three heads. “No. I’m tired. You promised to order in but you didn’t. Why don’t YOU cook something?”
“I can’t,” whined Michael. “I have a headache because I haven’t had anything to eat.”
Paul stormed out of the room and went into the kitchen to start dinner, while Michael settled back down on the couch and switched on the TV.

The first thing Paul saw was a sinkful of dirty dishes, soaking in soapy water. When Michael leeched off lived with me for 7 years after our divorce, he probably actually washed the dishes three times in that amount of time. His idea of “washing dishes” meant piling them in the sink with water and Dawn, leaving me with the fun job of actually washing them. If I refused to wash them, they would sit there for up to three days, until the funky smell of the cold, dirty dishwasher forced me to start from scratch, emptying the sink and starting over.

washing dishes

Paul stormed back into the living room. “You said you would wash the dishes, but they’re still sitting in the sink.”
“But I have to soak them first. I filled the sink with soap to loosen the dirt.”
“But that’s not WASHING them.”
“Whatever.”
Paul wound up washing the dishes and cooking dinner. And that’s why he was grumpy.
I don’t expect Michael to last long there. He will probably be living at the Salvation Army again even before Molly returns home. I can tell Paul won’t put up with his shit for long.

The story is funny, but it’s also illustrative of the mindfuckery a narcissist uses to get their own way. As always, Michael refused to take responsibility or do anything he didn’t want to do. When questioned or called out on his refusal to pull his weight, he either shrugs it off as if others are making a big deal over nothing, or shifts the blame to the other person. Because that’s what narcs do best, even though in their deluded minds they think they are demigods entitled to have their servants wipe their butts every time they take a dump.