And Then I Fell in Love with Two Strangers at the Same Time and It Was This Whole Thing

So the other day on my commute into the city for work, I was kind of involved in a sordid ménage à trois.

It started off innocently enough, with a single Twitter-documented romance:

Screen shot 2012-12-09 at 10.09.27 PM

And then it quickly became a soap opera. But I’m getting ahead of myself, so allow me to backtrack for just a moment.

After I sent that last tweet, I quickly assigned my new love interest an imaginary identity in which:

  • he moved to Connecticut from somewhere in Ireland when he was a child,
  • eventually got his MBA at Columbia,
  • now works in finance,
  • and, while on our train ride together, was en route to the city for a job interview with a company that’s trying to schmooze him into leaving his current six-figure gig,

because he’s that sought-after.

As his book rested on my knee, I may or may not have had a (totally awake) dream sequence involving us going into the train bathroom together.

This proved to be a big mistake, because:

  1. it was really just wrong on a number of levels, and
  2. those bathrooms are tiny and disgusting, so
  3. there’s a good chance he would have dropped his inhaler into the toilet while we were consummating our relationship,
  4. and then the fantasy turned into a nightmare when it ended with him having a post-train-sex asthma attack and was forced to save himself with a disgusting train-passenger-waste-infected inhaler, and
  5. it was all my fault.

Sometime around #4 is when I realized that I really need to save me from myself. (Are post-train-sex asthma attacks even a thing? If you’ve ever dated someone with asthma, please share your thoughts below, as I’d like to be prepared for what my future holds with Irish Job Seeker.)

Anyway. What I didn’t mention in the above tweets is that I was actually sitting in the middle of Irish Job Seeker and another suited businessman of about thirty whom I will refer to as Sexy Elbow Man, because he happened to fall asleep with his elbow digging into my left side — and that’s when I fell in love with him too — and I think I need to stop telling this story right now, because I can’t decide if it’s making me look like the creepiest person ever or just the most desperate (I think creepiest is winning so far, but not by much), but it’s definitely not making me look like someone who should be allowed to exist in society unmonitored.

Regardless, I think you’ll agree that between Irish Job Seeker’s book on my knee and Sexy Elbow Man’s elbow in my side, the whole thing was pretty much an intense train-threesome.

Who knew I was into that?

P.S. While I’d like to think these men kept touching me because I’m irresistible, my low self-esteem is inclined to believe that it’s probably more so because my fatness takes up so much space that they simply couldn’t make a single move without inadvertently making contact with some body part of mine. But whatever, I’ll take what I can get at this point.

P.P.S. Judging from that last sentence, it looks like most desperate is the winner!

P.P.P.S. “Winner” is definitely not the right word. There are clearly no winners in this blog post.

P.P.P.P.S. …except for Irish Job Seeker. He’s obviously at a high point in both his personal life and career, having train-threesomes and being schmoozed by competing employers and all. He is a winner.

P.P.P.P.P.S. I just remembered about the post-train-sex asthma attack, and we’re back to having no winners.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I’m finally done.

 

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Wilson Cruz Responds to Prada Post; Nic Cheats on Chipotle with Lesser-Known Sandwich Shop ‘Wichcraft

It seems that I am now on a full-out crusade to accumulate as many marriage proposals via Twitter as humanly possible… because I’m that needy.

Chipotle started it.

So. Because he’s awesome, Wilson Cruz (aka Rickie from My So-Called Life, aka that gay guy that you loved in He’s Just Not That Into You) read my last post. In it, I discussed how I failed at stalking Wilson at the Met and was upset about having lost out on the chance to tell him how much I adored his 1997 Ally McBeal cameo.

Through the perfection of Twitter, he responded:

Not quite a marriage proposal, but I’m glad that he appreciates the love.

I countered with, “And I’m now complete! Twitter is so ideal,” hoping he’d come back with something like, “Nic, will you marry me?”

Instead, I got this disappointingly apropos reply:

I’m still trying to figure out if I could viably make the argument that the subtext of Isn’t it? could be something to the effect of I love you too and would like for us to get married and adopt international babies within the next two years. Feel free to share your thoughts.

Later that day, I was having a Twitter-discussion with Ginger Clark (fiction literary agent extraordinaire at Curtis Brown) about the deliciousness of sandwich mini-chain ‘wichcraft.

Naturally, this ended up happening:

I of course responded with an emphatic “I DO!”

Within moments, the folks at ‘wichcraft officially weighed in and gave their blessing:

I’m sorry, Chipotle. While I have never been unfaithful in a human relationship, it seems I have less self-control when it comes to anything edible.

But this we knew.

(Between myself and Kristen Stewart, this was not a good week for monogamy.)

I find it hilarious that my second-ever proposal, just like my first, came from the official Twitter account of a casual dining establishment.

Though, I guess this wasn’t really ‘wichcraft proposing to me as much as it was Ginger officiating my marriage to a BLT and ‘wichcraft just offering lukewarm congratulations.

But I’ll totally take it.

Though an unambiguous Twitter-proposal from a real-life gay man would be nice.

…WAIT!

I must retract everything I’ve just written, because it just occurred to me that I have been proposed to via Twitter — explicitly and by a real-life gay man! It happened weeks ago, and I totally forgot to tell y’all.

The best/most surreal part: it came from one of my all-time favorite authors, Joel Derfner (read my review of his book Swish here) after he read “Not OK, Cupid.”

Marry me at once. No ambiguity there! (And yes, of course I will.)

(For clarity’s sake, I should mention that Joel was merely being polite. He is actually happily gay-married in real life. I’m only like, 98% jealous.)

It’s funny that the best Twitter marriage proposal I’ve received to date actually occurred before I ever even started desperately trying to accumulate them. It seems that when it comes to the quest for marriage proposals, trying = failing.

Or rather, trying = succeeding at finding love and companionship in food items only.

Thanks, universe — message received. (Again.)

 

I’ve Found Love in a Hopeless Place

It’s official. The perfect relationship exists, and I’m in it.

Are you jealous?

Don’t be, because my significant other is a commercial chain of burrito restaurants. That’s right.

You may have heard of my boyfriend — his name is Chipotle?

I know that in my epic last post, the happy burrito bowl ending was really just a way of saying that eating your feelings can be all it takes to recover from a self-esteem-demolishing, non-air conditioned train ride home next to a hot guy who has rejected you via the Interweb (because who doesn’t that happen to?) — but it has now grown into a full-blown relationship that is two-sided and very real.

How did this happen? Well, Chipotle read the post and has clearly decided that I’m husband material.

                                         Basically a marriage proposal.

Take that, Hot Guy Who Rejected Me.

I don’t know who Joe is, but it’s very likely that I’d be willing to bear his children if the opportunity presented itself.

                                               Definitely a marriage proposal.

Many happy returns. If a guy I slept with ever said that to me after sex, I’d legitimately think it was romantic.

And this might be why I need therapy.

(But I’ll probably just keep eating burrito bowls instead.)

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