The ghost of drunken hooking up past

Me: You are not going to believe who I saw in the bar last night.
Cindy: Who?
Me: DARREN!
Cindy: Tell-that-bitch-to-fuck-off Darren?
Me: Yup.

TTBTFO Darren is a boy I met during my sophomore year in college. He was short, Italian and cute, which is just the way I like 'em. (Well, I also like them tall and anorexic-looking, with dark, shaggy hair, big noses and light eyes. If they brood or woefully strum a guitar, even better.)

TTBTFO Darren and I hung out for about two weeks until I came to the conclusion that he was out of his fucking mind. The ex-girlfriends he wanted to kill, the monologues about how no one understood him, the jealousy, the bonsai trees -- it all got very weird very quickly.

So I started making up excuses, because You're a serial killer in training might not have gone over too well. And he started calling me, about 600 times a day. The roommate was nice enough to screen his calls and say I wasn't there until the day when a hysterical Darren said, I KNOW SHE'S THERE YOU FUCKING CUNT! PUT HER ON THE PHONE! and then TELL HER...TELL THAT BITCH TO FUCK OFF! Hence the nickname. After a month of two of glaring at me from across the room at bars and frat parties, TTBTFO Darren moved on.

Cindy: How did he look?
Me: Really cute. He cut off his hair.