OkCupid is Riddled with Psychos, and I’m One of Them

okc

There’s no easy way to say this, so here it goes: My friend and I have a ghost OkCupid account. I know, it’s weird and we need therapy. But this fake profile has proven itself to be immensely helpful and afforded us opportunities that simply don’t exist when playing by the standard OkCupid rules – including but not limited to:

  1. Stalking people without having them know that YOU are the one visiting their profile five times per hour day.
  2. Seeing what your real profile looks like to outsiders, and if it is listed as “replies often” or “replies selectively.”
  3. Spending inordinate amounts of time browsing profiles on the site. (Doing this from your real profile would cause your “Last Online” meter to perpetually read “Online Now,” making you look like a desperate person who probably has four cats and a freezer full of ice cream/maybe eight DiGournos – and that’s just not ideal.)

The other day I logged into this secret weapon in order to check out some dude’s pictures, and inevitably ended up combing through the profiles of every gay man in Connecticut (because what else is new?).

And then I came across a page that was hilarious, well written, and actually fun to read. And – bonus! He was really cute.

Unaccustomed to such compelling content on the site, I decided it was imperative that I send him a message. I spent a good twenty minutes coming up with something that referenced the things I liked most about his profile while simultaneously introducing myself as someone who is funny, well-read, and totally worth his hand in marriage.

Sent.

And then I went to check our compatibility match and saw that we were rated as 50% enemies. That’s weird, I thought, we’re so similar.

AND THEN.

I looked to the top of my screen and came to the earth-shattering realization that I had sent the message from the ghost account! (The ghost account, mind you, is a straight man from Tennessee with no pictures.)

Unsure of whether or not to cry or laugh or scream bloody murder, I did all three.

I tried to ask myself, “What would a normal person do to fix this?” but instantly realized that a normal person would never be in this predicament to begin with. Then I tried to ask myself, “WWJD?” but realized that Jesus would never need to create a ghost account in the first place because he’s Jesus and would probably just be like “I’m the son of God and I’m going to browse anonymously right now, and you’re going to be fine with that – okay, Cupid?”

So then I evaluated my realistic options:

  1. Send the exact same message from my real account and pray that he’d just chalk up the duplicate message to a strange OkCupid glitch.
  2. Come up with a brand new message to send him from my real account – one written in a markedly different tone than the one sent from the fake account – and hope that he’d just be like, “Hm. Two guys named Nic in the same day. Weird.”
  3. Say this: Hey – I’m about to come off as the creepiest person ever, but well, my friend and I have a ghost OkCupid account for stalking purposes… and I just accidentally sent you a message from it. I know. I need therapy. But the thought of formulating a NEW message that didn’t involve anything from the sent-from-creepy-TN-profile original message was too daunting, so I’m just coming clean.

Inexplicably, I somehow decided that number three was the best option and I sent it and I KNOW – anyone on the receiving end of a message like that should absolutely be cautious that the sender is a psychopath and probably block him or her.

In the heat of the moment, though, I ridiculously expected that he would see it and be like, “Wow, I admire this guy’s honesty. He’s keeping it real. He’s also handsome and brilliant!” and then message me with something to the effect of, “Hey, thanks for the message. You seem like someone I could spend the rest of my life with, probably. Totally okay about the ghost account; I understand. Let’s meet up for a drink sometime and maybe get married?”

Instead, I got this: Haha. Well, this profile is very different from the other.

Polite, but doesn’t exactly open the floor for me to respond with anything at all. The subtext was obviously very I’ve-seen-both-messages-and-you’re-crazy-but-I’m-just-going-to-give-a-dead-end-response-now-so-that-you-don’t-continue-to-stalk-me, but really, the fact that he responded at all is probably more closure than I deserve in this whole scenario anyways, so I guess on some level I got lucky.

What did I learn from this experience? A few things:

  1. I’m the biggest contradiction ever. Like, my sending of the overly honest second message was clearly me trying present this whole, “I’m just going to be so real with you right now. I’m that kind of person – I’m impulsive and transparent and don’t care what people think. I’m just doin’ me!” vibe to him – but someone who doesn’t care what others think would never create a ghost profile in the first place, so, yeah.
  2. Sometimes, when trying to make yourself not seem like a crazy person even though you are, it’s okay and extremely necessary to lie and take the secret with you to the grave.
  3. Life would be so much easier as a non-crazy person to begin with. (But how to become one?)

Oh and also – I really, really need to stop trying so hard.

But this we knew.

 

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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.

 

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