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

 

Advertisements

Possibly the Best Unintentional Metaphor for Life as a Disillusioned Young Professional Ever

Every so often I get the brilliant idea to wake up super early in an effort to gain control of my life and make the most of my pre-work morning time.

Here’s what my living room looks like in my head on those mornings:

Room1

ESPN? Porn? What the hell am I, a straight man?

Here’s what my living room looks like in my head on every other morning:

Room2

Admittedly more common.

In both scenarios, I get to work at the same exact time.

But I mean, in Scenario A, there’s this whole illusion of freedom and choice happening. ”I’m an adult who is in control of how he spends his time,” Scenario A proclaims.

“Hey asshole, no you’re not. Shut up and go to work before you get fired and therefore have no living room to procrastinate in in the first place,” says B.

“You know what? You’re mean. Maybe I don’t need a living room,” Scenario A might reply. “Material shit doesn’t matter! What is money, anyways, but paper and energy and an illusion?”

And that’s usually I get all What-am-I-doing-with-my-life-and-if-money-doesn’t-matter-then-why-don’t-I-just-quit-everything-and-move-to-a-shack-somewhere-in-the-woods-so-I-can-focus-on-my-true-passion-but-then-how-will-I-pay-my-student-loans-and/or-Wu-Tang-Clan-Fan-Club-dues?-FUCK-I’M-TRAPPED and my brain short circuits.

(Side note: I’m totally kidding about the Wu-Tang Fan Club thing. I have no idea where that random gangster rap reference even came from. Actually, wait. I do. I was going to write Mariah Carey Fan Club, but coming from me that just seemed far too predictable at this point. So then my mind was all, “Okay, well Mariah did that ‘Fantasy’ remix with Ol’ Dirty Bastard in 1995… and he was a part of the Wu-Tang Clan… and sure! I’ll say ‘Wu-Tang Fan Club’ and it will be funny.” But now that I think about it, I could have done better. I mean, I wasn’t even a Wu-Tang fan in the nineties, let alone today. Also, I highly doubt they would have had a formal fan club for me to join in the first place. I mean, would that have even been legal? I feel like drugs and guns would have been involved in some capacity, and I’m assuming that the post office would have had something to say about that. And then arrests would have probably been made, and then I wouldn’t even be able to write this right now because I’d be too busy wasting my days away IN JAIL, WONDERING WHY I CAN’T HAVE CONTROL OF MY OWN LIFE.)

Holy shit. Did the Wu-Tang Clan just prove my entire point for me? I think they did.

 

This is What Happens When I Best Man a Wedding

Yes, I just used “Best Man” as a verb in the title of this post. It’s a thing now, and you’re welcome.

So. After throwing an epic three-night, thirteen-man bachelor party at a rented house in Vermont last fall (the details of which I can’t get into for legal reasons), getting fitted for a tux while awkwardly asking the salesman, “So, what’s your perspiration policy?” (he just looked at me weird and said, “We clean them”), and sneaking my way into my now-sister’s bachelorette party in December by flashing everyone with my GC (Giant Co.. Gay Card) – my brother got married a few weeks ago. And! It was the best day.

Like, ever.

The fun started the night before at the rehearsal, where this conversation took place between two bridesmaids (whom I will refer to as Hilary and Amy) and myself:

  • Nic: Hey Hilary, wanna hear something hilarious? My aunt told my stepmom earlier that she thought I “had eyes for you.”
  • Hilary: Ha! Wait. Your aunt doesn’t know you’re gay?
  • Nic: I mean, it’s not like I hide it. I just don’t think she realizes that gay people exist in real, everyday life. Like, she’ll probably find out about me when we’re at my wedding.
  • Amy (joining the conversation): Oh hey, you have one too?!
  • Nic: What? No. I don’t. I’m not getting married. [Laughs uncomfortably.] I mean, I am getting married. I hope. Eventually. Just not any time soon. Gotta find the right guy first. All the ones I meet seem to fall short in one way or another, and I’m at the point where’s it’s like, I’m not in a rush to meet The One anymore, because where’s the fun in that? Plus I don’t wanna settle for less, y’know?
  • Amy (pointing to my left ear): I was talking about your cartilage piercing.

So that was awesome.

The ceremony the next day was also awesome, although there was a minor debacle when I went to deliver flowers to the bride in her dressing room and was cornered by the photographer, who asked to borrow the rings – allegedly for the purposes of taking artful pictures, but probably more so because she gets some kind of twisted joy out of making other people anxious – and then disappeared.

After five minutes passed, I started slightly freaking out at the realization that it was twenty minutes to showtime and my brother was waiting for me. So I bid adieu to the bridal party and luckily was able to find the photographer in a hallway, regain possession of the rings, and step outside to get back to the main church.

Except now it was raining and I didn’t have an umbrella, so I was like, “SHIT.” I went back inside and asked the photographer if there was an indoor route to the church that I didn’t know about and she was all, “I dunno.” So then I was like, “SHIT,” again, and just decided to run the few steps there.

And then, as I was approaching the entrance to the church, I slipped.

AND I PLUMMETED.

I was clearly touched by an angel, though, because I managed to make my hands hit the ground first. So it mostly just looked like I was doing a spontaneous and highly awkward military pushup (on a rainy church sidewalk, in a tuxedo) for a second. I also managed to quickly retrieve the rings (which, by the way, had also plummeted and were dangerously close to a sewer… I know. Can you IMAGINE?) and put them safely in my pocket.

1525242_10202646551142964_566470682_n

One would never know I had just almost ruined the entire wedding (and my ruggedly handsome face) with a single plunge.

And after that, everything went smoothly.

I pranced into the reception to En Vogue’s “Free Your Mind” while the Maid of Honor whipped me (literally), I rocked the Best Man speech (by “rocked,” I mean I got up in front of everyone and went on a long-winded verbal tangent about how my brother is a guy who exemplifies love and I am a guy who spent most of the nineties making Mariah Carey-themed scrapbooks), and I made sure everyone got really, really drunk – which, given our network of friends and family, didn’t actually require too much effort on my part, but still.

The whole thing was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences that make you stand back, look at your life, and say, “Holy shit. This is it. This is what matters.” It’s like, we can get so caught up in our daily routines – coffee, soul-sucking jobs, petty arguments, super important life-or-fucking-death (just kidding, I mean petty again) arguments, social media, Mariah Carey’s mental health (okay, maybe that’s just me?), the fucking weather, etc. – that it’s easy to start believing that the stuff that doesn’t matter, matters. But then something reminds you that it doesn’t.

Over time, I’ve found that meditation and books and — frankly — wine are good at helping me get to that place of transcending the bullshit. Celebration and love and family are even better.

And Best Man-ing is, of course, the best.

 

I Accidentally Made Out with a Closeted Married Man, and Now I’m a Hot Mess

First and foremost, I feel the need to assure you that the events I’m about to recount actually took place. Like, in real life. Which you’ll soon realize is insane because one) I have already written extensively on the subject of falling in love with hot suited strangers during my daily commute on the Metro-North train, two) I once even blogged about a fantasy sequence in which I made out with one of them but he ended up being married, and three) that is somehow EXACTLY what happened to me last Friday night, in real life. IR-fucking-L.

There’s a lot to discuss here, so let’s just start from the beginning.

It was the end of a long week, so naturally I went out for post-work Sangria in the city with one of my best girlfriends. One pitcher turned into two, and before I knew it I was a little tipsy on a late-night train back to Connecticut. The train was delightfully empty, so I got cozy in a four-seater all by myself and prepared for the fifty-minute ride home.

Then he showed up. Hot businessman guy. He was wearing a grey pinstripe suit, fancy watch, and (according to my tipsy-goggles, at least) was ruggedly handsome – kind of like Brandon Walsh from 90210. Except manlier. And thirty-something. And, again, in a suit.

I took about five seconds to observe and appreciate his hotness, texted my friend something like “OMG, this man on the train is my everything,” glanced his way again, and then went back to staring at my phone (lest he catch me looking at him and interpret my stalkerish gazes as reason to desert me and switch to another train car that wasn’t crawling with predatory gay bloggers).

As we pulled out of Grand Central, the conductor came on the intercom and was all, “Please make all seats available,” and then the hot businessman opened up a roadie Coors Light, took a swig, and responded (to everyone and no one), “Uh, the train is empty!”

In my mind: He totally just opened the floor for conversation!!! Should I respond? I should definitely respond. No. That’d be weird. Wait, but he was weird first to even make the empty train remark to begin with. OK I’m doing it! No. YES. NO. Yes.

Out loud: “I know, right? The train is so empty!”

To my surprise, he looked my way and smiled warmly as I mentally congratulated myself for being capable of putting words together quickly enough to respond to his declaration. (Even though, let’s be honest, all I did was say exactly what he said except with a “so” in front of it.)

From there, we engaged in a bout of small talk about our commutes (we live in the same town, turns out!) and jobs (we work in the same part of the city, turns out!) and interests (we both watch football, turns out!).

While all of this was going on, I started developing the hopeful feeling that this guy was maybe gay, maybe into me, and maybe meant to be my husband. I mean, why else would he be so friendly? But then I told myself, “No. Calm yourself down, Nic. This dude probably thinks he’s just having a man-to-man discussion about Eli Manning and meanwhile you’ve let your mind go to that ‘ohmiGod is he gay and in love with me?!’ place in not even five minutes. GET A GRIP.”

After a few moments, we reached a lull in conversation. And then some random ass creepy guy in a black trench coat showed up out of nowhere and took one of the seats directly in front of me in my four-seater, despite the fact that there was a whole train car of empty seats available to him! James (the hot businessman guy — fake name, FYI) and I immediately exchanged glances to acknowledge how bizarre this was.

The creepy guy must have realized that James and I were telepathically discussing his weirdness (or maybe he just had to pee), because he abruptly got up and went to the bathroom, leaving me alone to wait for him to return and maim me take his seat back.

But then.

Like a knight in SHINING fucking ARMOR, James got up, swooped over into my four-seater and asked, “Would you like me to sit here instead?”

And so of course I said, “Yes!” and officially moved on from the “ohmiGod is he gay and in love with me?!” place into the more confident “My life is a romantic comedy and James and I SHALL BE MARRIED AND THIS SHALL BE THE STORY WE TELL OUR ADOPTED CHILDREN’S CHILDREN!” place.

For the remainder of the ride home, James and I talked. About our educations, occupations, hometowns, hobbies, and dreams. At one point I told him how I was working toward becoming a full-time writer and he responded with, “That makes sense; you give off a crazy-creative vibe,” and I had to pinch myself to ensure that I wasn’t just train-hallucinating this whole situation.

When we got to our stop, we walked off the train together.

“Alright,” I said as we approached the escalator, “I guess I should get on my way. Got a bit of a walk home.”

Then James was like, “Do you want a ride?” and I was like, “Yes!” (Because an exclamation-pointed “Yes!” had clearly become my go-to answer to any and all of James’ questions that night.)

I know what you may be thinking: Nic just accepted a ride from a stranger? Is he fucking nuts?!

Yes, I did. And yes, I am. And this is why hot people are dangerous. Because had this dude been gross looking or even just average, there’s no way I’d have said anything other than, “No, thanks.”

Still, as we walked to his car, there was a small voice inside of me that was like, “Uh, Christian Bale in American Psycho, Nic. He was hot. He wore a suit. And he killed bitches!” But I was able to quiet it down by asking James flat-out, “You’re not a crazy American psycho, are you?”

He just laughed adorably and said, “No! Trust me, you’re in good hands. I never do this. At all. Is this weird? This is weird. But I feel comfortable with you.”

And so we hopped into the car and continued talking for the duration of the ride to my apartment while our hands almost touched on the center armrest and I realized that I still didn’t have any conclusive evidence of his gay or straightness. There was a part of me that truly wondered if James was just a really nice straight man doing me a favor… but then there was another part of me that wanted to believe we had been flirting all night long.

Either way, when we finally got to the front of my building, I didn’t want to say goodnight. I considered inviting him up to my apartment, but then I was like, “WHO ARE YOU?” (to myself, not him) and instead settled for exchanging cell phone numbers with the intention of hanging out on purpose sometime soon.

And then.

I thanked him for the ride and reached out to shake his hand goodbye.

AND THEN.

He leaned over and went in for a kiss!

And so before I knew it, I was living in a dream and we were making out. And y’all — it was good. This man clearly knew what he was doing. Which is why it was so jarring to me when he abruptly stopped mid-make-out, said, “I don’t know what I’m doing!” and freaked the fuck out.

“What?” I asked, acting as if everything about this whole situation wasn’t bizarre enough to begin with.

“I don’t do stuff like this,” he nervously responded. “I’m married.”

So then my heart kind of casually just stopped, no big deal, and I said, “Wait. You’re married?” [Dramatic pause.] “To a human?”

“A human, Nic?” he replied. “Yes. I’m married to a woman.”

Jaaames!!!” I whined. “WHY?”

And then I punched him. (Playfully and on the chest, but still.)

He proceeded to apologize for not telling me about his wife before kissing me, and then he got this really sad look on his face, and for a second my heart felt incredibly heavy for him. Because I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to be trapped in a straight life and married to a woman and have to deal with inner demons and family pressures and tempting little hot pieces of ass like me just occupying four-seaters on trains on Friday nights.

But then I felt more bad for his wife, because I’m friends with quite a few women and I know for a fact that none of them want their husbands to be repressed gay men.

But then (and maybe I should be ashamed of this?) I felt mostly bad for me. Because seriously, WTF? I meet this perfect-in-every-way man — the old-fashioned, technology-free, just-like-in-the-movies way, even! — and we hit it off tremendously, and he’s the most passionate kisser in the history of the world, and then he’s somebody’s husband? How did I forget to check his left hand for a ring? How did he think it was okay to pursue me in the first place? Do any quality, available men even exist anymore? WHERE HAVE ALL THE COWBOYS GONE?

After about thirty awkwardly silent seconds of sitting in James’ car post-wife-confession, I decided to just start making out with him again. This was desperate and not okay, I know. But again: his kiss. It was delicious. Delicious and forbidden and sexual and hot. And I knew that he was a very dangerous person to even think about getting involved with, but I wanted to pretend for just the shortest moment that he was good and genuine and mine.

And so we kept making out in his car for about ten more blissful seconds, but then — and I think this may have been my conscience resurrecting itself from the low-self-esteem-y grave I’d just dug for it — I started wondering what his wife’s name was and what she must be doing and what she might think he was doing and what her Pinterest might look like. And so I finally mustered up the strength to say, “Dude. This is fucked up. We can’t do this.”

“You’re right,” he replied, not fighting me at all. “I understand if you want to just lose my number. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I sighed. “It’s fine.”

Then I got out of his car, walked up to my apartment, and aggressively slammed my bag against the floor in a fit of rage. I ran to my window to see if his car was still on my street, but he had already driven off. Regardless of all the reasons not to, I wanted to call him right then and there to ask him to come back so we could try and recapture whatever the hell it was we had both just discovered and lost, all within the past hour.

But then I walked into my bathroom, looked at myself in the mirror, and realized that I really, really needed to take his advice — and just lose his number.

2014 UPDATE: We ran into each other at Dunkin’ Donuts and it was weird.

 

Two Dramatic Blood-Drawing Incidents… and a Funeral

It all started last week when my doctor ordered me to go to a lab to get some blood samples taken so she could test me for “EVERYTHING EVER, PLEASE” (my words, obviously).

After failing to get the job done on my first trip to the lab on Monday (I totally forgot that overnight fasting was a thing, and so I accidentally had a bagel beforehand, and stop looking at me that way), I decided to go back on Friday.

Since I had already taken Friday off of work for a funeral, I figured I’d do the whole blood thing first thing in the morning (before the allure of a bagel could fully conquer me) and then continue to the funeral home from there. This plan seemed perfect – very two-birds-one-stone-y – but then I got to the lab and the phlebotomist (side note: is it just me or is that word weird?) ran into difficulties as she attempted to siphon the required amount of fluid from my right arm.

“This is strange,” she said. “Your blood isn’t flowing.”

Your blood isn’t flowing: Not something one typically wants to hear moments before a funeral, but whatever.

“Huh. That’s strange,” I replied. “Usually it flows… I think? Doesn’t it like, have to? For me to live?”

She ignored my series of questions, took the needle out of my arm, pointed at where she pricked me and said, “See! You’re not even bleeding! This is not normal.”

This is not normal: Also not something one typically wants to hear moments before a funeral ever, but I had to agree with her. I mean, who has a hole in their arm and doesn’t bleed?! (Besides me.)

The phlebotomist suspected that my problem was a lack of hydration, so she put a meager little bandage on my non-bleeding right arm and instructed me to drink a bottle of water. Then she tried again in my left arm, and thankfully, the blood started flowing and everything ended up being totally fine – though I did feel a little lightheaded (/emotionally drained/literally drained… of blood) after the whole ordeal.

(Side note: I also had to give a pee sample. Inconveniently, though, after I peed in the cup, I noticed that I had kind of gotten pee all over it. This was embarrassing, so I decided to take a tissue to wipe the rim and edges of the cup clean, BUT as I did that, I accidentally dipped the tissue into the main pee supply. This was not ideal, as it led me to imagine a scenario in which my pee sample was completely contaminated by whatever tissues are made of (paper? Cotton? Lotion? Does it depend on the brand? Why don’t I know this?) and so I emerged from the bathroom and asked the phlebotomist, “Is it OK if I accidentally dipped a tissue in my pee?” and she gave me a look but then just shrugged and said, “It’s fine,” which led me to believe that perhaps I wasn’t the first person to ask this question – which, if that was the case, then I’d love to meet whoever asked it before me, as I imagine we could totally be BFFs. Or husbands.)

When I finally left the lab and made my way to the funeral home for the viewing, I was asked to be a pallbearer. Naturally, I responded with, “Of course! But you should know that both my arms are more or less severely injured after having just had blood drawn from them.” [Dramatic pause.] “But it’s totally fine.”

Luckily, I managed to make it through the experience without losing my grip, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t drink a glass of wine at the dinner afterwards in order to reward myself for a job well done. I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t continue drinking glasses of wine until I eventually felt it appropriate to ramble on to everyone in attendance about how heroic it was of me to carry a casket up and down church steps while dealing with a double arm-handicap.

And then I realized that I had somehow managed to make a funeral all about me.

And then I realized that I had singlehandedly (or double-armedly?) reached previously unexplored, astronomical levels of self-absorption.

Even for me.

IMG_20131018_153623_602

I mean, I even took a sun-in-the-eyes selfie. And this is what’s wrong with America.

I’m in Therapy AKA Writing a Memoir

So, I feel like I’ve been too absent from blogging and it’s making me all like, lugubrious (my favorite word).

I mean, it’s nothing like the Grad School Hiatus of Early 2012, but I’m definitely not blogging frequently. And the weird thing is that I’m writing more than I ever have. For instance, I wrote this Advocate article about how gay men are Mean Girls and we should maybe try to be nice to each other at bars. (I wish I were kidding, but this is actually a foreign and controversial concept.)

Also, I told myself that I’d finally finish my book this year – a resolution that you can so thank me for later after it comes out and you have the pleasure of reading 70,000 words about my relationship history and it makes you feel better about your life by providing you with the comfort of knowing that you’ve never passed out in your ex-boyfriend’s car and peed all over the backseat as a result of an argument that started over whether or not he was in love with your female best friend.

You’re welcome in advance.

Despite the fact that I’m busily writing, I do kind of feel like I’m failing as a parent. Like, I really hope that when I become an actual gay dad, I won’t just start forgetting to feed my kid for weeks at a time because I’m too busy writing a book. That would just be effed up. And it would totally give gay dads a bad name, since the story would probably make national news and then crazy anti-gay pastors and chicken restaurants would be all like, “YOU SEE THAT? Gay dads starve their children so they can write books!” And so basically what I’m saying is that I don’t want to set civil rights back ten years just because I decided to share my story with the world and inadvertently become the poster-child for child abuse, so I’m writing this blog post as a way of feeding my child. Because I believe that all children should be fed regularly — you hear that, Chick-fil-A?

…Where the hell was I going with this?

Oh, right! The book.

I’m about halfway done at this point, and revisiting my past in this way is proving to be way more therapeutic than any therapy that money could buy, I think. (I say “I think” because I still haven’t actually succumbed to the pressure and scheduled that inevitable first appointment.)

Seriously, it’s like I’m living my life all over again.

For example, I just finished a chapter about a much-older foreign man who was the Alexander Petrovsky to my Carrie Bradshaw back when I was twenty and therefore a dumbass, and – as I wrote about the experience while on the train en route to work – I legitimately cried in front of strangers.

So then I thought to myself, “WHOA. Do I still have unresolved feelings of anger, unworthiness, and shame from that whole situation?” and a part of me answered with, “Yeah dude,” but then another part of me was like, “Nah…” and then the rest of me was like, “LEAVE ME ALONE, I’M JUST TRYING TO WRITE A DAMN BOOK!”

Me at 20... When I had a 42-year-old boyfriend who recently made me train-cry as I wrote about him. Are you intrigued?

Me at 20… When I had a 42-year-old boyfriend who recently made me train-cry as I wrote about him four years later. Are you intrigued?

Stuff like this has been happening a lot.

Also? I haven’t been dating at all. Which is actually kind of awesome. (Okay, how shocked are you that I of all people just wrote that?) My abstinence has been allowing me to just like, focus on me and write and work and go to breweries and eat lots of carbs and it’s lovely.

So… I’m not sure what I’m trying to say with this post, other than I’m still here. Just less frequently for a while.

Oh and I’m also trying to say that if you’re a gay dad and you’re reading this – STOP RIGHT NOW AND GO FEED YOUR CHILDREN BEFORE WE LOSE THE FIGHT FOR EQUAL RIGHTS!

 

God Texted Me and Was All Like, “Stop Dating A-Holes!”

Last week was so, like, sign-from-God-y.

Seriously, it was just one sign from God after another. There were so many SFGs, I feel like God and I have been texting.

Or something.

It all started on Wednesday night when I slept over one of my brothers’ houses.

(Explanatory side note: I have four older brothers/stepbrothers. Growing up, I was the fat, whiny baby of the family always seeking the most attention. Does that explain everything about Keychanges ever?)

So. During our long-overdue sleepover, we kind of killed a few bottles of wine while catching up on our mutual frustrations with life and love – and I kind of ended up texting with almost every man I had semi-seriously dated in 2012.

I woke up the next morning, eager to review all texting transcripts, and saw that my phone was permanently destroyed from water damage – thereby precluding me from EVER BEING ABLE TO SEE WHAT WAS WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE.

Maybe I actually have been texting with God — I wouldn’t know. Either way, I feel like this mishap truly was His way of teaching me some kind of lesson about letting go. And communicating intentionally. And not sending drunk-texts. And the importance of buying a protective phone case. And probably a lot of other stuff, too.

The next day, after acquiring a new phone, I went on a date with a friend of a friend from near my hometown — and he was so ridiculously unavailable that it’s not even funny. I’m talking lives-far-away-in-the-first-place-and-is-in-the-closet-and-deleted-my-totally-innocent-Facebook-post-from-his-wall-the-next-morning unavailable.

On account of my low self-esteem, I actually allowed myself to like him for approximately 48 hours.

But then this happened:

FB

Y’all, it was like the Trail of Tears.

I will say, though, that the majority of my Facebook friends and I do believe I was incredibly resourceful (and, really, genius) for coming up with that traffic solution. Also, the timing could not have been any better: It was year-end-retrospective-y. It was therapeutic. It was the springboard to my realization that most of the men I dated last year were – in their own, individual ways – totally unavailable.

Later that night, inspired by all of these happenings, I wrote a short piece that got picked up by Thought Catalog. It’s called, “2013: The Year I Officially Swear Off Unavailable Men.”

I’d like to thank God for this particular New Year’s resolution.

P.S. Did you notice how my last two posts have been all God and/or Pope-y? What the hell is going on?

P.P.S. What I realized from having my Thought Catalog piece semi-edited: I overuse italics for everything. No I don’t. Do I? I’ve been wrestling with this demon since it went live.

P.P.P.S. Can we just talk about the naked man that they paired with the article? Now every time I go to view my work, I get sexually aroused… Is this what self-love feels like?

 

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.

 

%d bloggers like this: