Anyone Else Becoming as Unhinged as I Am Lately?

The past few weeks have seen me having more melodramatic breakdowns than usual, and it’s a problem. One second I’ll be all balanced and happy and zen, and then the next I’ll be spiraling into a black hole of fury: arguing that working forty hours a week is bullshit, telling myself that I’M THE SMARTEST PERSON I KNOW, and randomly IMing my friend Steven with nonstop pictures of Mariah Carey alongside her various love interests throughout the years.

Like, the other day I saw this beautiful passage on Louise L. Hay’s Facebook. Basically it’s all about how if we use a tomato plant as an analogy for creating the lives we want, we can be happy. Because we trust tomato plants to grow, and so when our personal tomato plant starts to sprout, we shouldn’t get angry and ask, “WHY AREN’T YOU BIGGER AND BETTER?” but rather we should keep watering it and say, “Woohoo! It’s on its way!”

I read it and thought, That’s how I’m going to live my life from now on.

Then this IM conversation happened after I randomly went off on a tangent to Steven about how I wish I had a year off to eat, pray, love, and finish the millionth third draft of my book:

  • Steven: i feel like you’re on the verge of a breakdown
  • me: dude it’s true
  • Steven: i can feel it
  • Steven: coming in the air tonight
  • Steven: i FEEL it. when your messages get short and sans caps and punctuation and proper capitalization
  • me: there’s just gotta be more to life
  • me: than chasing down every temporary hiiigh
  • Steven: oh god you’re breaking out the Stacy O
  • Steven: every time you do that, you have a crisis of faith
  • Steven: and then you throw shit and start crying
  • me: and the worst part is that I’m lucky to be employed where I am
  • me: and yet
  • me: WHERE’S THE MEANING?
  • Steven tomorrow you’re gonna be all, “we must reach for the stars with our highest energy and smoke our own poz toxins and look out of our third eyes and be the best versions of ourselves”
  • Steven: followed by quoting some zen writer I’ve never heard of
  • me lmao. true

Later that day…

  • me: the issue is simple
  • me: I just need to hold on through this rough patch
  • me: and continue to strive toward creating the life I want
  • me: I’m just getting so fucking impatient
  • me: like… fucking.. WHEN
  • me: but I mean, I know we mustn’t attack our tomato plants
  • me: WHY AREN’T YOU FUCKING GROWING YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT TOMATO PLANT WORTHLESS FUCKING PIECE OF GARBAGE
  • Steven BAHAHA
  • Steven: I’m dying
  • Steven: I think you need to work toward being your best self
  • me: I’d like to be handed everything on a silver platter
  • me: WHERE’s my platter
  • me: omg I’m a fucking abomination
  • me: that’s negative
  • me: I’m a radiant expression of God’s love
  • Steven: I. Am…Dead

So, I don’t know. I guess the one lesson, if any, I’ve gleaned from this whole thing is that if you’re lucky enough to have a tomato plant, don’t be an asshole. Be grateful. Be graceful. Let it grow. And then go make some marinara sauce, maybe? Or: schizophrenically unravel via IM and then blog about it later. That always works too.

tomatoplant

 

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I’m a Fast Pedestrian with Angry Thoughts, but at the End of the Day I’m Spiritual So It’s All Good

One of the things I advertise on my OkCupid profile is the fact that I can walk really fast through crowded urban streets.

Screen shot 2014-03-03 at 8.24.16 PMIt’s not that I’ve ever been particularly proud of this ability – frankly, there are many other, more important things that I can do well – but “walking briskly in New York City” was really the only answer I could think of for that question that didn’t make me sound like a pretentious douche bag who looks in the mirror on an hourly basis and probably has a pet name for his penis. Because that’s nobody’s type.

(Although now that I think about it, I have been involved with or know more than a few of those kinds of dudes. And they never seem to run into any problems getting laid. So maybe I’m wrong and that’s actually everybody’s type?)

(Holy shit. I think I just figured out why I’m single.)

(Hold on…)

Screen shot 2014-03-03 at 9.04.04 PMOkay, I’m ready for all the men to want me now.

(Side note: While the above answer is of course a joke, I did have to change my real-life profile to that for about twenty seconds in order to secure the screen shot. And it was the most anxious, frightening, and uncomfortable – and yet oddly invigorating? – twenty seconds of my life.)

Moving on.

Wait, where was I going with all of this anyways?

Oh, slow people. So I started writing this post from my seat on the commuter train, because basically I had to zigzag my way through an army of molasses-paced pod people at Grand Central Station to get there, and it was so fucking annoying because everyone loves to walk in every which direction while being all “I’m slow and I wear mittens” while I’m just internally like, “ARGH! GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY AND LET THE TALL GUY THROUGH SO HE CAN GO HOME AND DRINK WINE AND GOOGLE LYRICS TO NINETIES POP BALLADS AND FANTASIZE ABOUT BEING FRIENDS WITH OPRAH AND VENT ABOUT HOW SLOW YOU ARE ON HIS BLOG.”

But then I started writing, and then that whole OkCupid introduction turned into a way more involved tangent than I had originally intended it to be, and so by the time I was ready to get into how enraging slow people are, the frustration had worn off and my desire to angrily rant was (mostly) diminished. And then I reminded myself that having to deal with dawdling pedestrians is small. fucking. potatoes compared to the real issues in the world (potato famines, for instance), and we are all cut from the same divine thread of oneness and so really I need to be spreading love and light to everyone — even people with shorter legs than me.

Wow. I’m pretty sure this entire post just turned into like, a deep lesson in perspective, love, forgiveness, and the Golden Rule, all at the same time. You’re welcome for the wisdom.

Now move.

 

I’ve Been Violated and Also Here are Some Life Updates

Um. Just when I thought the past few weeks couldn’t have been any heavier on the Internet dating absurdity, I got a text from my ex-boyfriend saying this:

  • “Hey Nic – hope your day is going well. Just wanted to give you the heads up, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think someone stole your identity again. This time on Plenty of Fish.”

And then I said:

  • “WHAT IS GOING ON SEND ME THE LINK IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T UNDERSTAND WHY EVERYONE DOES THIS TO ME…???!”

Here’s some background information:

Three years ago, when said boyfriend and I were still together, a friend of mine who lives in Chicago alerted me that he had come across a Facebook profile with some weird name that had a picture of me as the default.

I of course flipped out and reported the page to the site and overused the “Contact Us” feature and sent a strongly worded e-mail to Mark.Zuckerberg@facebook.com (because what if?) but then it bounced back because I guess he went to Harvard and realizes that would just be too obvious.

Luckily, my boyfriend was there to hold my hand throughout this ordeal until the profile was removed and the world made sense again.

So when last week rolled around and that same boyfriend informed me of the fact that I’ve been reverse-Catfished yet again, I experienced an epic moment of anger, déjà vu, and major ice cream consumption.

Like seriously, WTF?

I know I’m vaguely attractive in an approachable way especially if you’re drunk, but please, crazy Catfish people – if you’re going to play these ridiculous games, DO IT LIKE A NORMAL PERSON AND STEAL THE PHOTO OF AN AMATEUR MODEL.

I won’t continue on about this, because I’ve decided that I’m going to write a piece called “An Open Letter to the Guy Who Stole My Identity on Plenty of Fish” that will tell you everything you never wanted to know about this whole situation, and I’ve already said too much.

In other news, I realize that I haven’t blogged in like, weeks – so here’s what I’ve been up to:

  • Watching the OWN Network and becoming a generally positive, self-loving, self-fulfilled person. (Feel free to read this unlikely bullet point three or more times to really let it sink in.)
  • Writing dating advice columns about closeted dudes.
  • Still slaving over a hot stove my memoir on a daily basis.

I’ve also been tweeting about everything pope-related ever.

At first I didn’t really care:

#ThingsICareAboutMoreThanWhosTheNextPope

Then I was like, Okay, this smoke thing is weird, and also maybe the new pope should sashay out onto the balcony to a nineties pop hit:

Sashay

And then it was all over just a little too soon:

:(

 

How I Got Screwed Over Royally by US Airways

With a recent travel experience of mine in mind, here’s a short list of things that I currently despise:

  • Birds (of all varieties – except turkeys, because those are delicious and Thanksgiving is very soon, and I voted last week – so I’m obviously a patriotic American)
  • US Airways (specifically, their nonexistent customer service skills)
  • Sketchy motels (and the plethora of STDs I may or may not have as a result of staying in one over the weekend)

Allow me to elaborate on the first two:

My flight down to Raleigh, North Carolina last Friday was cancelled because some asshole bird decided to fly into the plane’s engine earlier that morning.

Initially, the lady at the gate just said, “The plane has hit a bird, so the flight is cancelled.” She neglected to mention the whole engine thing, so I was of course imagining that a bird merely hit the windshield – which left me perplexed and made me go into a ridiculously unnecessary thirty-minute mental tangent exploring the concept of airplane windshield wipers and how they must really suck.

Then someone on Facebook told me it was probably a stuck-in-the-engine situation, and I proceeded to feel like an idiot.

I called US Airways’ cancellation line to find another flight, but was informed that there were no other US Airways flights to Raleigh that day. I almost started crying into the Bloody Mary that I had procured in the midst of all this drama – but then the lady on the phone was all like, “…let me check if we can book you on another airline for no additional charge,” and suddenly I believed in love again.

But then she was like, “Sorry, there are no flights at all,” and the tears resumed.

I re-booked for 6:30 a.m. the next day and was super depressed but quickly got over it with the help of my vodka/tear-filled beverage and Mariah Carey’s 1994 Christmas album (which I plan on listening to exclusively for the next forty or so days; don’t hate).

Moments later, my brother’s amazing girlfriend called me with the great news that she found an available one o’clock flight that day via Southwest Airlines!

Giddy as could be, I called back the US Airways number to let them know that they could cancel my 6:30 and book me on the same-day Southwest flight. But then my giddiness faded when the phone representative said, “Oh, I’m glad you were able to find a flight! But I can’t book that for you over the phone – you’ll have to go to the ticketing line and have them make the arrangements with Southwest at the actual airport.”

The original US Airways phone lady never mentioned this annoying caveat, but whatever, I thought, as long as my supposedly fat ass gets to Raleigh today.

I ran to the ticketing window and proceeded to overhear the guy in front of me get told that – for some unknown reason – they couldn’t put him on that same Southwest flight. I got all depressed again, but then my brother’s aforementioned lifesaving girlfriend booked the flight online herself and had the confirmation sent to my Blackberry e-mail.

When I finally got in front of the US Airways ticket lady, she immediately launched into the same “that flight’s not available” spiel that she had given my predecessor — and that’s when I melodramatically whipped out my smartphone and shoved my confirmation e-mail in her dream-shattering face while politely asking for a refund.

Then she was all like, “Well, we can’t reimburse you until you actually obtain your Southwest boarding pass and show it to us,” which actually made my day because of the implication that they’d need to see the cost of the Southwest ticket in writing so they could reimburse me as accurately as possible.

Then I hauled ass across the airport, waited in Southwest’s line, got my boarding pass, and hauled ass back to the US Airways woman, who was now facing a line of about eight people and actually told me to wait again.

When I finally showed my boarding pass to her, she didn’t even look at it and proceeded to refund me only for the cost of the original US Airways ticket – thereby rendering my whole ass-hauling boarding pass achievement totally unnecessary.

Then this exchange happened:

  • Me: What about the extra sixty dollars that I had to pay for the Southwest ticket?
  • US Airways Lady: We can only refund you for the cost of the original ticket you purchased with us.
  • Me: So, I get inconvenienced with a flight cancellation and I have to pay extra?
  • US Airways Lady: You are welcome to write US Airways a letter. Perhaps they’ll be able to compensate you in some way. Sorry. (In the least apologetic tone ever, mind you.)

What I actually responded with: Thank you for your help.

What I should have responded with: YOU SUCK, and so does the airline you work for. Y’all have been the opposite of helpful. If I wasn’t lucky enough to have someone checking flights from home and willingly booking me on last-minute replacement flights on a moment’s notice, then you would have delayed me an entire day for absolutely no reason. Furthermore, Y’ALL LIED TO ME about the availability of said replacement flight about three times. And to top it all off, you had me take a sixty dollar hit after all of this inconvenience. And your only peace offering is to tell me to write a letter about it?! No. I WILL NOT WASTE MY TIME WRITING YOU A LETTER.

…but I will waste my time writing you a strongly-worded, totally public blog post.

 

The Restorative Power of Mountains, Oktoberfest, and Lots of Garlic

So, the past few weeks have not been ideal.

I stopped dating (and consequently, blogging), the Pats lost for two weeks in a row, and I had to deal with some other life drama that is totally blog-inappropriate (although, my definition of blog-appropriate includes some pretty questionable things — so there’s a good chance that my other life drama is actually totally apropos by normal-people standards).

In light of the above, I decided to drop everything on Friday and spontaneously join two of my best friends on a trip up to the Catskills for a long weekend of nature, Oktoberfest, and garlic — three of my favorite (totally non-questionable) things.

It was awesome and pretty much fixed my life.

Our first morning there, we engaged in an rousing session of moving wood from a big pile in the yard to a neatly organized stack on the side of a shed.

                                                      Bringing lanky back.

Yeah, I’m basically a glumberjack. (That means “gay lumberjack,” for those of you who don’t spend much time in glumberyards.)

…Or maybe I’m just Big Ang. (This is what happens when I obnoxiously try to display my buff chest while my friend struggles to take a picture that actually includes my face.)

Later that day, we encountered a random group of horses quietly standing still in the middle of a circle.

I know, right? It was weird to me too.

                     “Oh, don’t mind us. We’re just chillin’ with our saddles on.”

Naturally, I felt compelled to loudly declare, “THOSE ARE NOT REAL HORSES!” So I did.

And then my friends looked at me like I was the weird one. And then the horses moved and I stood corrected. And then I tried to explain to my friends that those horses were freakin’ bizarre — because a brilliant Mariah Carey music video from 1997 taught me that real horses, when left to their own devices, like to run wild and free with abandon into the sun.

And then they looked at me like I was weird again, and I was like, “Listen, y’all, if we weren’t in the mountains right now and had cell service, I’d settle this immediately by YouTubing ‘Butterfly’ and this whole argument would be moot.”

And then we all stopped caring about horses because we realized it was time for Oktoberfest.

After a glorious afternoon of beer and German food, we decided that the best way to end the day would be with some good old fashioned cigars while overlooking the mountains from the house we were staying in.

           Gangsta. (Or just nerdy gay man with a cigar and a chalice. Either one.)

For some reason (and by that I mean, “probably because of all the beer”), I felt compelled to try to be a tough guy and inhale all of my cigar smoke for the first time ever. So I did.

And then I proceeded to throw up three times.

Frazzled, I thought I was dying and promptly took to Google while my friends watched A Time to Kill starring Matthew McConaughey and Sandra Bullock and insisted that I was just having a bad reaction to the fact that I inhaled an entire cigar.

Thankfully, Google agreed with my friends. Turns out that inhaling cigar smoke is totally okay if you’re a chain-smoking professional. If you’re a glumberjack who only smokes on special occasions such as Oktoberfest, New Year’s Eve, and Carrie Underwood album release days, then you should avoid it at all costs. (You’re welcome for the warning, glumberjacks.)

By the way, did I mention that there was lots of foliage already and I freakin’ love being in nature?

                                         Fresh mountain air heals everything.

Our final day in the mountains involved hitting up my first-ever garlic festival. And it was heaven.

Turns out I’m a big fan of garlic burgers, garlic fries, garlic pancakes, garlic ice cream in garlic waffle cones, garlic sausage, and (non-garlic) bottled water.

At the end of it all, I feel like the trip (combined with Sunday’s incredible Pats win) really put life back into perspective.

And I didn’t even have to watch Titanic this time!

But I did have to move some wood, throw up a little, and eat probably nineteen cloves of garlic.

Totally worth it.

 

Purposeless Dating: A Big Waste of Time

When it comes to how I feel about dating, my nineties television soul mate — Ally McBeal — says it best:

“The truth is, I don’t actually date. Not for the fun of it, anyways. I more like audition potential husbands. And if I don’t see any potential, I don’t waste my time.”

This woman. She gets me.

This is why I’ve had approximately thirty-nine and a half first dates this summer that ultimately went nowhere. Because if we’re on a date and I learn that you are:

  • closeted,
  • of an unkempt appearance,
  • humorless,
  • a Jets fan,
  • shorter than advertised on OkCupid,
  • averse to beer-drinking, or
  • incapable of having a conversation about anything other than the gym,

then I will not waste my — or your — time.

I kind of have a non-existent biological clock that requires my husband and I to adopt our first potentially international baby when I’m between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, and I’d like for us to have been happily gay-married for a good five years before that happens. So, according to these calculations, I have a maximum of six years in which to find Mr. Right.

While I realize 2018 isn’t the most immediate deadline, I have no desire to spend the rest of my twenties reliving my slutty college years months (I was monogamously coupled for ninety-percent of my undergraduate experience).

In short, I hate wasting time.

Unfortunately, because the universe clearly hates me, the majority of this summer’s guys that I did see husband-potential with seem to love wasting time. This is evidenced by the fact that they waited until the second, third, and even fifth dates to tell me that they “aren’t looking for anything too serious,” but “still want to hang out” — and then had the nerve to suggest we still sleep together.

Pardon my naïveté, but it truly blows my mind that men can effectively say, I’m afraid of commitment but I do kind of enjoy your company, so let’s just have no-strings-attached sex, and expect it to be received with a glowing air of understanding acceptance.

I’m sorry, but the whole reason I went on those multiple dates and took the time to get to know you as a person was because I ultimately want those effing strings (maybe not with you, but if things were to work out, then, yeah — strings would be the end goal). And frankly, I’m pretty damn sick of feeling like I’m some kind of crazy person because of it.

Maybe I do need therapy.

But honestly, when did wanting a relationship go from being an obvious implication of participation in the dating scene to being some kind of rare psychological disease that signifies my desperation, neediness, and obesity?

After days of contemplation, I’ve yet to figure that one out.

I have concluded, though, that perhaps the above-mentioned men of my summer aren’t all being honest. Maybe the ones who “don’t want anything serious” are liars who may or may not just think I’m fat. Or maybe they are being truthful. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for my future that I keep meeting men who could be described in either of the following two ways:

  1. They honestly aren’t looking for relationships, and are therefore douche bags — douche bags who all deserve to be stuck on trains with burrito bowls and no forks — for allowing chemistry to develop between us over the course of several dates, and then telling me that they’re commitment-phobic.
  2. They’re lying sons o’ bitches. They actually are looking for relationships, and the “don’t want anything serious” line is their seemingly-less-damaging way of telling me that somewhere along the way in our sequence of dates I scared them off by saying that I “truly believe Taylor Swift is the Joni Mitchell of our time… except deeper.”

To the number ones: Grow a pair, and learn to keep it real. And to the number twos:

…Grow a pair, and learn to keep it real.

With this in mind, I’d like to proclaim the following to all potential suitors:

Be aware that I’m looking for something serious. Who the hell knows yet if I’m looking for something serious with you, but if I agree to multiple dates, then it should be interpreted as me acknowledging that I at least see potential with us. If I eventually decide that we may not be a good fit, then I will tell you that — probably by saying that I see us more as friends (who never hang out).

Please reciprocate.

Don’t waste my time; don’t waste your time.

 

 

Tragedy Strikes During My Fantasy Football Draft

So, with the exception of last week’s glorified Instagram posting, it just occurred to me that it has been two full weeks since my last real post. Gasp!

Where has the time gone?

Actually, I can answer that question:

  • One weekend at a casino filled with a drunken Zac Brown Band concert and modest gambling
  • Four gay bar debaucheries (just like the olden days of Keychanges)
  • My fantasy football draft, which turned into a major debacle when I lost my Internet connection
  • Lots of feelings-eating (as per usual)
  • Mad Men and several more Don Draper fantasies
  • Work (lest I forget)

And suddenly it’s fall.

If you don’t know me in real life, you may be shocked to discover that the same emotionally needy gay man who once assaulted a wine bottle out of husband-less frustration happens to be a fantasy football enthusiast (with a title under his belt, no less) and a country music fan, but both facts are indeed true.

Being a gay fantasy football team owner is kind of like being Peggy Olsen in Mad Men. That is to say (for those ignorant to my new television obsession) it is akin to being a female working professional in the male-dominated corporate world of 1960’s advertising — you must overcome prejudice, never let them see you cry, and deal with the fact that everyone is going to expect you to eventually get pregnant and start neglecting your duties. (Really, I should be so lucky to have that last problem.)

To give you some insight as to how I retain my identity while participating in heteronormative activities such as fantasy football, here is a fun little screen shot:

                                  And there goes my credibility.

Please note the Mariah Carey-inspired team name and Victoria’s Secret-approved helmet logo color scheme.

I had been preparing for this season’s draft for quite a few days leading up to the event, so you can imagine my utter rage when my WiFi decided to cut out during the seventh round. Thankfully, I had chosen most of my starters at that point, but when I finally got back in, I found that auto-pick had stocked my bench up with a number of unsavory back-ups.

Not. Okay.

Naturally, I proceeded to write a strongly worded e-mail to my building about how the free WiFi they offer is total crap and I demand a recount! (Kind of nonsensical, but I was pissed.)

The e-mail was actually pretty eloquent, but then I arrived at the final paragraph and couldn’t resist sharing with them that they had negatively impacted my fantasy season.

I now realize that this may have negated the validity of my entire argument and made me come off as some kind of disgruntled frat boy who really needs to gain some life perspective. I might as well have also thrown in that their WiFi is so bad that it interferes with my porn-viewing habits and often renders the Domino’s Pizza Tracker inaccurate.

Needless to say, I’ve yet to receive a response.

Anyways.

I really want to elaborate on the five other bullet points above, but now I also really want to order Domino’s, so I’m torn.

Where would I even begin? The gay bar sagas involve Lou, whom I’ve reluctantly become friends with. The casino weekend involves car troubles and beer, which is always fun to write about. The feelings-eating is pretty much a feature of every other post of mine, so I guess I can skip that…

Ooh! I just got a brilliant idea.

If there’s one story that you’re particularly intrigued by, tell me in the comments. If there is enough feedback, perhaps I’ll just make my next post dedicated to whichever topic has generated the most interest. Or just don’t comment at all and I’ll construe all of the non-response as evidence that my life is as uninteresting as I secretly fear.

(Excuse me while I order a pizza.)

 

Don’t Let Me Near Your Wine Bottles (Because I Might Have Anger Issues)

Do I strike you as a repressed psychopath with the propensity to unravel at any given moment?

I’m asking because I don’t know how else to explain this:

                                                 Someone needs Yoga.                       

Please note that the cork is still encapsulated by glass. I’m fairly certain that things like this don’t normally happen to people who haven’t been to prison at least twice.

                  Don’t let his smile fool you, Scrubber Ducky (right) is not amused.

I don’t recall exerting too much force during the uncorking process, but that’s probably because my mind was busy wandering into a pleasant daydream that involved me marrying Bradley Cooper and therefore having a practical need for this fantastic just-released home buying guide for same sex couples.

It is clear, though, that I eventually snapped out of the daydream, shed a single tear for reality, and went all Incredible Hulk on the unsuspecting wine bottle.

                                          Care for a glass of pent-up rage?

No, I did not drink it.

Or. Well. I might have had three sips, but each one was tainted by the possibility of glass shards scraping my esophagus and wreaking havoc on my digestive tract, so I stopped. Painfully, I poured the rest of the wine down the drain.

I wonder if those three sips are reason enough for me to bring up “internal bleeding” as a valid concern at my next physical. I’m gonna go with yes. I may also have to bring up my seemingly superhuman strength — something that’s especially bizarre given the fact that I’ve allowed myself to skip the gym for the past several weeks because I took the stairs at work one morning two Fridays ago.

In any case, in regards to that question I asked at the beginning of this post — please take your time answering, because if you say the wrong thing I MIGHT RIP YOUR FACE OFF!!!

Carry on.

 

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