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.


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.



Food, Football, and Love

Every time I write an angsty rant about why men suck, I always question the decision later. Like, if only I had watched He’s Just Not That Into You for the thirty-seventh time while inhaling frozen chicken wings and a case of light beer before opening my laptop, last week’s post could have probably been avoided entirely.

But then again, it was met with an overwhelmingly positive response from women far and wide — so at least my anger was able to cultivate some kind of sisterhood united against noncommittal a-holes. That’s always good.

In any case, I’d like to bring some positivity back up in here by presenting you with a photograph of a mural-sized rendering of the tattoo I’m strongly considering getting inked between my shoulder blades:

                                           This piece of wood just gets me.

Or, if we want to be a bit more specific — a combination of:

  • two hot dogs,
  • a cheeseburger,
  • three grilled shrimp skewers,
  • approximately fourteen steak tips,
  • eight pieces of marinated pork,
  • a quarter of a rack of ribs,
  • probably a bag of chips,
  • too many Coors Lights to tally up, and
  • another cheeseburger

is love.

Because that’s what I ate on Sunday throughout the course of tailgating and attending the Patriots home opener, and it was definitely love in its purest form. And/or its most obese form — which is fine, because I’m totally over those body image issues, Lou. Because really, unlike a gay bar, Gillette Stadium is something of a judgment-free zone.

I don’t know what it says about the world that I’ve come to associate gay men with rejection and ostracization while I associate NFL games with love and acceptance, but the irony is not lost on me.

                                     I’ll take “fat” over “douche bag” any day.

As far as the game itself, we couldn’t have sucked more. But I’m getting over it.

And yeah, as far as the men I’ve dated this summer, they couldn’t have sucked more. But I’m getting over that, too. Because — when it comes to both dating and football — it’s early.

And there’s always next week.


The Burrito Bowl, the Hot Guy Who Rejected Me, and the Fork: A Tragicomedy

The other day I was looking back at some old posts. Specifically, the one about the time I saw my hot would-be husband (affectionately named Lenovo Guy) on the Metro-North train twice in one week but couldn’t bring myself to talk to him because Lenovo computers are the devil and for some reason hot would-be husbands always render me mute. It made me think to myself, wow, if only something mildly interesting like that would happen to me again, maybe I’d have something better to write about than my recent desperation (not that my recent desperation hasn’t resulted in some lovely material, as Not OK, Cupid can clearly attest).

Inexplicably, my wish for a blog-worthy debacle has been granted. And it happened on the Metro-North. Again.

It all went down last Thursday night when I had to work past my usual dinnertime. By the time I left the office, I was hungry enough to eat a manila folder with a side of paper clips, so I knew that picking up some food pre-train would be essential. I stopped at Chipotle for a to-go burrito bowl and hauled ass to Grand Central just in time to snag a cozy three-seater all to myself.

As I settled in and prepared for a glorious moment of burrito bowl-mastication, I reached into the Chipotle bag to discover that there was no fucking fork. (Do you love the alliteration?)

It took a moment for the reality to set in that I was on a train about to depart for forty minutes of express transit to Connecticut with absolutely no fork-acquiring opportunities in sight, but once it did, I panicked. I felt like growing a loaded pistol for a hand, holding the entire train hostage, and maybe shooting bullets at the ceiling to scare people — all while sob-screaming at the top of my lungs like a crazy subway platform person about how life is unfair, the government is trying to exterminate giraffes, and anyone in possession of a fork must relinquish it to me NOW and no one will get hurt.

One might say that hunger makes me mentally unstable.

My inner tantrum came to a relieving halt when I got distracted by a hot guy who jumped into the train right as the doors were closing. As I creepily watched him scan the rows for an empty seat, I noticed that he looked very familiar — like I had known him in a past life. Or was it a dream?

Then it hit me. It wasn’t a past life or a dream — it was Ok-fucking-Cupid. I had sent this guy a message three weeks ago.

His response? The dreaded blue.

Yup. I had chosen this dumbass as one of the few OkCupid users actually worth me risking rejection (which we all know I handle about as well as a toddler) for, and he shot me down. And I had no fork.

(My ability to not cry at this point should be applauded.)

Then he sat next to me. Of course.

I decided to bury myself in a book, hoping that Hot Guy Who Rejected Me wouldn’t take a second look in my direction. Then I totally caught him glancing at me four times. (Not that I was keeping a running tally on my BlackBerry or anything. But I might have been.)

I started thinking oh, my God he recognizes me, how humiliating; and I really hope the view from the corner of his eye doesn’t involve me having a double chin.

Then the train broke down. And the lights went out. And so did the air conditioning.


The loss of A/C made me sweat profusely while Hot Guy Who Rejected Me, from what I could ascertain from the corner of my eye, stayed magically dry and gorgeous. Prick.

Meanwhile, my burrito bowl was slowly dying and it kind of smelled.

Thankfully, the train was back up and running within twenty minutes. But as luck would have it, our car remained void of A/C. The conductor made an announcement that it was not coming back for us and we could walk up to other, cooler cars if not soaking in one’s own perspiration was a personal priority.

Hot Guy Who Rejected Me stayed put in spite of the heat, and for a moment it made me wonder if maybe he wasn’t repulsed by me after all. I longed to ask him so many questions. Questions about the reasoning behind his choice to ignore my message, how fat he thought I was on a scale of one to ten, and — perhaps most importantly — whether or not he happened to have a fork on him.

I remained silent instead, determining that he was probably only staying seated not because he wants to marry me but because he’s not human and doesn’t sweat.

When I got home later that night, I was mortified to look in the mirror and discover that there was major pit-stainage on my shirt that Hot Guy Who Rejected Me definitely saw and probably judged me for.

But then I got over it as I opened my kitchen drawer and pulled out a fork in excited preparation to eat the burrito bowl that was now sweaty, mangled, and of an awkward temperature. The burrito bowl that was still delicious anyways. The burrito bowl that had patiently stuck with me throughout this entire ordeal, and never decided that I wasn’t good enough.

Whoever said “food isn’t love” has clearly never been to Chipotle.


Not OK, Cupid

So, my OkCupid addiction. Let’s discuss.

My emotional stock in that site has become a problem. It’s like I’m on the hot seat, losing miserably in the game of Who Wants to Be a Happily Married Gay Man?, and OkCupid has become my final lifeline. Phone a Friend? No thanks, I’ll just browse the profiles of all the single gay men in the tri-state area between the ages of 21 and 35 who have master’s degrees and are at least five-foot-ten!

And that’s my final answer.

If you’re unfamiliar with OkCupid, then you’re probably happily coupled and I therefore hate you. But I’ll give a brief description anyways.

An online dating service for hip, young people, the design of OkCupid is quite aesthetically pleasing — hues of royal blue and hot pink provide a pleasant backdrop for the endless supply of profile bricks filled with smiles, vital statistics, and the fleeting hope for a future that doesn’t involve being a cat lady.

When you have a new message, the menu bar atop the page turns pink. If your inbox is empty, the menu bar remains in its normal state of icy cold blue… kind of like my heart.

The problem with this coding? Nothing, unless you consider the fact that the color pink has now taken on Oprah-levels of significance in my life. I associate it with validation, self-worth, and the distant notion that maybe — just maybe — I’m not obese. Pink makes me feel good.

And blue? Fuck blue. What once was my favorite color is now fraught with undertones of rejection, unworthiness, and feelings of impending doom.

Another destructive helpful feature is that OkCupid kindly informs users when you were last online. While I appreciate this tremendously in my stalking efforts, I find it disconcerting that random visitors to my profile know that I was desperately seeking a husband at approximately six o’clock this morning when I should have been getting ready for work.

More often than not, outside of working hours (without which, I’d be completely hopeless), my profile photo has a translucent and mildly condescending Online Now stamp framing its lower half. This includes right now, as the site retains such a firm grip on my balls that I can’t even blog about its firm grip on my balls without still tabbing over and clicking “refresh” every fifteen minutes.

I’m not saying that OkCupid has led me to spend enough time staring into my computer screen to develop severe eye strain and a chronic twitch… but that’s kind of exactly what I’m saying.

The eye twitch started bothering me at work, so I called my ophthalmologist and he was all, “Oh, just drink tonic water and put a tea bag on it!” and I was like, “Weird advice, but okay… Cupid.”

As it turns out, my eye doctor is a genius. The quinine in the tonic water relaxes my eye muscles just enough to make them stop throbbing, which in turn quells my fear that I’m in the throes of some kind of originating-in-the-eye death attack. It’s magical.

But now I have another problem.

Cinchonism — a pathological condition that is purely caused by ingesting too much quinine.

In short, my search for love has caused me to hate the color blue, develop an eye twitch, and now contract a disease with symptoms ranging from deafness to anaphylactic shock.

Here’s how I diagnosed myself: all the quinine I was drinking led me to curiously Google “overdose of quinine,” at which point I found a real disease and proceeded to flip the fuck out at my desk for five minutes until thinking things like, wait, I don’t have any symptoms, maybe I’m fine, until realizing that it was time to check my OkCupid inbox and that I could figure out if I was dying of a quinine overdose later, and then the menu bar was blue and I burst into tears over the fact that I HAVE CINCHONISM!!! (If it were pink I would have been fine.)

Except I don’t have cinchonism.

Wikipedia and I are pretty sure that the real trajectory of the disease is something like malaria -> high doses of straight-up quinine -> cinchonism. As opposed to my experience, which was simply desperation -> OkCupid -> eye twitch -> tonic water.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if this is all God’s way of  telling me to stop trying so damn hard.

Maybe I should just sit back, like so many other people are capable of doing, and let life do the work. Maybe I should try being a normal, content, self-fulfilled person. Maybe then — when I’m not trying to force it into existence — love will finally come along and bite me in the ass.

Or the eye.



Do you love how I claimed that I would start blogging once a week and then suddenly disappeared from the blogosphere for yet another month?

Again, my absence can be attributed to grad school being a needy bitch.

Honestly, if I could somehow get a written guarantee that my life would turn out just like Julia Roberts’ character in Pretty Woman, I’d totally drop out right now and turn to prostitution — that way I could blog during the day and then hit the streets at night!

Moving on.

Two crazy things happened a few weeks ago that I have been meaning to write about.  They are:

  1. I was involved in a street fight
  2. I went to a straight strip club

(As usual, all names have been changed.)

Both of these events occurred in the same night, and as their respective descriptions imply, involved lots of fists and boobies.

Ok, “lots of fists” might be an exaggeration.  What happened was actually a senseless attack involving just two sets of fists…

…neither of which belonged to me.

A group of friends and I were walking to the subway after having enjoyed some cocktails on my rooftop, when an inebriated Marlena (my delightful classmate and beloved friend) decided to pin me up against the side of a random building and tell me how beautiful, thin, and sexy I am.

  • Explanatory side note:  throughout the evening I was regaling my friends with the high-octane thriller of a story known as Nic Gained Twenty Pounds and is Now Fat and Unlovable.

Out of the freakin’ blue, a drunk and possibly coked out twenty-ish guy came barreling towards us.  He was being loud and obnoxious.

The rest is somewhat blurry, as I was busy being validated…

What I do vividly recall, though, is that after the crazy guy passed by Marlena and me, he randomly punched my friend Steve in the face.

I KNOW, right?!

Had we been in another borough, perhaps I’d understand this random act of violence and hostility… but in safe, gentrified Manhattan?!  I was stunned.

Steve promptly proceeded to fight back and almost severely injured the attacker until someone came in and broke it up.

After this whole debacle, we migrated to a random strip club in midtown called Lace.  Steve recovered very quickly with the help of a lap dance.

And this is why straight men sometimes perplex me.

If I had been randomly punched, it would have taken a lot more than a set of boobs in the face to quell my urge to turn the entire night into a dramatic sympathy-for-Nic festival, complete with multiple retellings of the incident — each of which slightly increasing in severity with alcohol consumption.


As the night progressed, there were lots of boobies — perfectly shaped, oblong, saggy, perky, large, small, and in between.  All major segments of the booby market were represented at this symposium of boobies.

It should be clear by now that I love using the word “boobies,” despite my lack of interest in the actual product.

Something else I love about strip clubs: I get to play some of my favorite question games!

  • Guess the Stripper Life Story
  • If __________ knew his/her song was being stripped to right now, how would he/she react?

and my personal favorite,

  • Which straight man in here do I most wish would instantly turn gay and give ME a lap dance?

Game number one is most fun when you exhaust all of the possibilities.  After mulling through the usual broken home, daddy issues, and working-her-way-through-community-college scenarios, I finally settled on “trained gymnast out of work.”  Bitch knew how to work a pole.

As far as number two goes, I’m pretty sure two of the three members of Destiny’s Child would be appalled to know that “Jumpin’ Jumpin'” is now standard strip club fare.

I’m of course excluding Kelly Rowland — have you seen the video for “Motivation”?

Number three was the least fun, as for some reason I kept coming up with Bradley Cooper, and he wasn’t present.


Now that I’ve relived this whole night of boobies, I suddenly have the urge to go watch some softcore gay porn.

That or Pretty Woman.


Books That I Love in an Oprah Kind of Way

At the risk of being hated by responsible grown-ups everywhere, I’m gonna go ahead and admit that I’ve been sleeping in a lot lately. Except for yesterday when I woke up at 6:00 am with my roommate so we could beat the rush for the kickoff of Super Doubles at Harris Teeter. All coupons with a face value of up to $1.98 were doubled… It was GLORIOUS. But my newfound couponing obsession is really deserving of its own trilogy of blog posts, so I won’t get into that right now.

When I’m in New York, my life is as follows: I wake up early to go to the office, I attend class at night, and I do my graduate work on the weekends… all while still finding the time to abuse Facebook, overeat, and drunk-text ex-boyfriends. Impressive, I know.

But what to do when all of these responsibilities melt away in the summer heat for three months?


Yes, before Heroes (and sleeping, couponing, and blogging) took over my life, I spent much of my free time reading about other peoples’ lives (in print, like the olden days). I thought it would be fun to share some of my new favorites. I’ll try not to get all Oprahbookclubby on y’all — though I pretty much do love these books as much as Oprah loves Dr. Phil, The Secret, and pre-debacle James Frey.

The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance by Elna Baker.  This memoir finally answers the age-old question, “What do a neurotic Mormon woman from Seattle and a gay Democrat from Connecticut have in common?”  As it turns out, quite a bit. Also, Elna is an NYU gal, so that helps to mitigate the fact that we fundamentally hate each other.

Here’s the thing: I adored this book. I found myself relating to her humor and overall struggle as she ran around New York City losing her innocence and desperately searching for the love of her life — only to meet him and find out that he’s an atheist! Elna, girl, I know the feeling. Granted, my version of this would be the time I met the man of my dreams and discovered he was into water sports.

Moving on.

I Am Not Myself These Days by Josh Kilmer-Purcell.  This is one of those books that’s been recommended to me many times, but I always avoided it because people tried to sell it to me by using the phrase “fish boobs.” I know, right? Happens all the time. But I’m glad I finally came around, because it is truly the best thing I’ve read in a long time. An incredible and somewhat heartbreaking story, yet it is so hilariously told that I nearly peed myself about 17 times throughout.

Is it too soon to joke about pee after just making the above water sports reference? If so, I apologize. In any case, this book ultimately serves as further proof that I absolutely love things like prostitution, drugs, and alcohol abuse — as long as I’m not actually involved.

Swish: My Quest to Become the Gayest Person Ever by Joel Derfner.  Yet another NYC memoir. Joel Derfner is hysterical, and I’m jealous of his awesomeness. There’s so much truth on every page — like when he writes about wanting to get sex over with so he can eat some raw cookie dough, and then follows it up with, “I worry that my priorities are misplaced.” Basically, if the entire book-reading world turned gay and had my sense of humor, this would be an all-time bestselling sensation — right up there with What To Expect When You’re Expecting.

Borrowed Time: An AIDs Memoir by Paul Monette. I stopped reading at page 50 because that’s when I started awkwardly sobbing in the middle of Starbucks. Monette recounts his experience as the last-man-standing from his entire circle of friends — including his long-time partner — until he himself falls victim to the disease. I don’t know what it says about me as a person that I can’t bring myself to read about one of the darkest periods of gay history, even when it’s this beautifully written, but I can’t. Maybe someday — when I’m really depressed, perhaps — I’ll be able to finish it and contemplate life’s big questions. Until then, I’ll stop acting like I know anything about what it means to feel hurt and start thanking God for the daily blessing we call life.

…Is that something vaguely inspirational I just wrote? Damn you, Oprah! Sorry, everyone — I failed in my attempt to not get all Oprahbookclubby.

Just kidding about the “damn you,” O. I love and worship you always.

  • Formatting side note: I miss bullet points.

Alrighty. If anyone found this entry to be boring and/or irrelevant, worry not. No one misses reading about my life more than I do! My next post should be somewhat interesting, as my week ahead involves things like returning to the Nashville gay bar where I met Martin (who, by the way, hasn’t texted me since I declined his offer), driving 900 miles, and finally reuniting with my real boyfriend, New York City.

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