The Straight Gay Ghost of Tinder Past

tinderghost2

So this past Saturday, right? I’m sitting on the couch in my hotel room and killing time on Tinder waiting for a trolley to pick me up for a wedding, and I come across this buff bro type named Benjamin with the perfect amount of facial hair and I swipe right and It’s a match! and he messages me.

  • Benjamin: oops lol

Twelve minutes of silence

  • Benjamin: this happens sometimes, it’s weird

At first I thought he said “oops lol” as in “I MEANT TO SWIPE LEFT BECAUSE YOU’RE GROSS lol,” which hurt my feelings and stunned me into the twelve minutes of silence you see noted above, but then when he followed up with that second message I was just confused.

  • Me: wait what? What happens sometimes?
  • Benjamin: I’m not gay lol. But idk sometimes guys show up in my feed and I guess I’m an aggressive swiper
  • Benjamin: the last time this happened the guy took my third photo a little too seriously and asked me if I wanted a bj haha

So of course I go and look at his third photo, and it’s of a random sign on a fence that reads: Ready. Set. Blow!

  • Me: LOL oh, gotcha. Yeah sometimes Tinder puts girls in my feed and I’ll have a mild identity crisis. Not gonna lie, that third picture of yours is intriguing haha
  • Benjamin: ha

So at this point I’m fairly certain it’s over, but then after a few minutes he’s baaack.

  • Benjamin: You ever suck a straight dude’s cock?
  • Me: Uhh
  • Me: maybe in college? now I only give head to get head haha
  • Benjamin: lol I see
  • Benjamin: You’re saying I’d have to suck yours too? lol
  • Benjamin: I might be willing to try

Okay. If you weren’t just like, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? THIS IS ALL SO ABRUPT!” as you read that, then I’m going to go ahead and assume that you run in some fucked up circles. Because seriously, what the fuck was going on? It was all so abrupt!

A sick part of me was intrigued, though. And he was cute. And I mean, who knows, I figured. Maybe sexually flirting with a closeted/questioning straight man on Tinder will be a great, emotionally healthy thing to do! Plus the wedding trolley was running late.

  • Me: haha REALLY?
  • Benjamin: maybe
  • Me: well I’d probably be too chickenshit to meet you IRL anyways
  • Me: I’ve seen enough TV to know that being lured into a strange setting on the promise of straight dick can be dangerous
  • Me: I don’t want to get gay bashed!!!
  • Benjamin: lol
  • Benjamin: no I understand
  • Benjamin: so do you have a nice dick?

First of all, how insufferable am I with the whole making-light-of-gay-bashings talk up there? But it was an actual concern I had, and that’s why talking to closeted/questioning straight men on Tinder is never a good idea — you’ll totally wonder if he’s serious or if he’s like, acting on some kind of gang initiation dare where he has to lure a gay guy into a strange setting with the promise of straight dick and then maim him. It was a dark scenario to contemplate, but luckily, as you can see above, he asked me about the quality of my genitals before I could fully explore it.

  • Me: I’ve never had any complaints haha
  • Me: You???
  • Benjamin: about 7
  • Me: nice

How hilarious is it that we’re both grown men here? Like, as I’m reenacting these messages I’m legit thinking to myself, “OMG HIGH SCHOOL DELUXE,” which is both sad and also evidence that people never actually grow up and everything is just a façade. (Wait was that deep?)

  • Benjamin: you have Snapchat?
  • Me: yeah my name is ctnicolas
  • Benjamin: send me a pic of it
  • Me: my wedding trolley is here! Argh right when this was getting good

Saved by the fucking trolley, am I right? I mean, as much as I enjoyed our bizarre spur-of-the-moment exchange, I’m not about that dick pic life. Even though I’m pretty sure I gave him my Snapchat name because I wanted to get a pic of his dick, but whatever, I’m a hypocrite, YOLO.

After I logged off Tinder, I got two notifications indicating that Benjamin had messaged me. By then I was in wedding mode, though, so I didn’t sign back in to look, figuring that he probably just said “lol ok ttyl” and I could go back to our conversation later in the evening after I got white girl wasted at the open bar.

Flash-forward to later in the evening when I’m white girl wasted at the open bar:

BENJAMIN IS GONE.

Like, his profile is not in my matches anymore. Our entire message history has vanished. It’s like he was never there. Like he didn’t even exist.

You may be wondering how I was able to so accurately quote the conversation throughout this post without the actual transcript for reference, and the answer there is that I was obviously writing this post in my head from the very first moment Benjamin brought his penis into the discussion, so I was grasping tightly to the contours of pretty much every line we exchanged right from the start. (Though I didn’t have the foresight to screen-shot it before he went all fucking Houdini on me, but lesson learned.)

I told my best friend Fran this whole story the next morning over coffee.

“Yeah, dude, it was so weird,” I said. “Like, ‘Ever sucked a straight dude’s dick? POOF I’m GONE!’ He deleted his entire Tinder profile because of me.”

“Or he just blocked you,” she dryly retorted. “Oh! Did I just stomp on your self-importance?”

It was kind of insulting but mostly hilarious, because it was true.

So in conclusion, I don’t know. This whole situation was bizarre and crazy and yet another example of the sad, strange world we live in. Mostly I just feel for Benjamin, because I know we’re all on a different journey in this life and sexuality isn’t always black and white and so who the hell knows, maybe he’s bisexual and needs to figure that shit out via a spontaneous Tinder beej. Or maybe he’s gay and tortured. Or maybe he’s straight and was just having a moment like the one I had that time I flirted with a beautiful girl at a straight bar all night and we almost decided to go back to her place to “just get naked and see what happens” but didn’t.

Or maybe — actually? — it’s none of my damn business. But then again, neither is the length of his dick. And yet somehow I know it’s “about 7.”

The Internet is so weird.

 

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Kind of a Blog Post About Dating, Mostly a Video of Me Singing a Dixie Chicks Song

Recently some readers have been inquiring about my dating life, which, contrary to the fact that I haven’t really blogged about it in nearly nine months, has not disintegrated entirely into a never-ending loop of me eating bagels and watching the OWN Network with the affirmation “I give up on men but it’s fine because Oprah completes me” pinned front and center to the cork board of my sad, sad manless mind.

No, it’s been quite the opposite. Really I just cooled it on the confessional dating posts because I got sick of being held accountable to the identity of Thirsty Writer Who Can’t Find Love. The line between my art and my life had gotten a little too blurry. (Also, furry.) (And a lot like jury.) (Duty.)

(…What the fuck just happened?)

I think during the golden era of Jilted-Insecure-What-Is-Love-BABY-DON’T-HURT-ME blog posts, what I was really looking for was some kind of external validation and/or magical cowboy to sweep me off my feet and make all my problems go away. (Because #ThatzHealthy.) The reality of actually settling down and committing my time and energy to the happiness of another human being and having to deal with things like “sacrifice” and “compromise”? LOL. No. The first option required much less effort and made for better writing material.

I came to this epiphany earlier this year after I finally stopped looking for that cowboy and then a bunch of dudes fell for me at the same time and it made me feel like almost as much of a douche bag as I do for typing this sentence right now. You know those surreal phases where you become a man-magnet and the more men want you, the more other men want you? And your life becomes a real-world version of The Weather Girls’ timeless classic “It’s Raining Men,” until finally you’re like, “Wait, I think I wanna just go inside now. Or at least whip out an umbrella,” because you’ve lost the ability to give a shit? It was one of those.

Mancloud

Which is why now I’m not really wasting anyone’s time by trying.

Instead I’ve just been living and focusing on things that I love already – my family, my friends, my writing. My newfound interest in singing random country songs while shittily playing guitar. Of course I’ve loved being in relationships in the past, and if another one happens to come my way soon and it feels organic and right and not at all like suffocating, then awesome.

But as for the idea of longing for a magical cowboy to sweep me off my feet and make all my problems go away? I’m over that shit. It makes for better art than it does an actual way of life.

 

And Here’s the Douchiest OkCupid Profile EVER

In case you missed it, I recently wrote about how I advertise the fact that I’m a fast pedestrian on OkCupid because it seems like the least douche-y option for my “I’m Really Good At” section. But then just for ha-ha’s I went on this whole tangent about what I’d put in that section if I were a total douche canoe, and it was kind of the best thing ever.

I mean, this:

Screen shot 2014-03-03 at 8.24.16 PMBecame this:Screen shot 2014-03-03 at 9.04.04 PM

I don’t know what this says about me as a person, but coming up with that second one was actually the most fun I’ve had in about a fortnight. And so with that in mind, I thought it’d be awesome and probably a little revelatory to sarcastically remake my entire profile in the voice of the Biggest Dick Ever* as part of an imaginary game show I just made up in my head called If I Were a Douche.

Douche

Shit. I just realized I got so carried away with all the O’s that I forgot the U in “Douche.” I’d fix it, but lately I’ve been trying to do this thing where I embrace my imperfections. (Thank you, ekgo.)

So here we go.

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 11.57.34 AMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 11.59.42 AM

Me: Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.00.54 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.03.08 PM

Shit. Did I just learn something new about myself?

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.03.44 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.04.00 PM

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.05.03 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.06.23 PM

Wow. I’m never starting a sentence with the word “also” in a dating profile ever again.

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.06.54 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.07.55 PM

Okay, Me as the Biggest Dick Ever* is getting kind of annoying – and also a little nonsensical. Chimneys? WTF?

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.08.47 PM

Me as the Biggest Dick Ever*:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.09.02 PM

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.09.28 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.09.48 PM

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.11.01 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.13.49 PMListen, Me as the Biggest Dick Ever,* you can stop filling out this profile at any time. No one is forcing you to carry this task out to completion. Also, did you just ridicule my entire career as a blogger?

Me:Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.16.54 PMMe as the Biggest Dick Ever*:

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 12.18.46 PM

OMG but seriously, remember the AOL-butt?

*I realize that, if taken out of context, the name “Biggest Dick Ever” takes on a whole other meaning. So I thought that I should asterisk it every single time it came up in this post. Just so you know that I know.

 

Three Things I’ve Decided About the Search for Love

I recently came across a half-serious/half-bitchy article on Esquire‘s blog that addressed the myriad ways in which my soul sister, Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City, has allegedly corrupted the belief systems of modern women. Within, the author kind of says — no big deal — that my entire life’s work is bullshit. Also, the reason I’m single.

Specifically:

7. Portraying Yourself as Someone Who Can’t Find Love Will [Not] Find You Love. Publicly crafting yourself as a person who can’t find love will not encourage anyone to love you. You should resist every urge to make your dating horrors into a cottage industry. Do not blog about them, do not indicate them in your status updates, and don’t you dare read your personal essays at even one open mic night.

This makes scary sense, doesn’t it? Like, when I first read it, I was all, “Shit, my Internet writing! My blog! I have destroyed ALL chances of ever finding a husband. Should I purchase an impregnated cat now? Or?”

But then I breathed deeply, closed my eyes, and thought to myself, You know what? No.

Because for me – someone who has been healed and inspired by the writings of many a confessional memoirist – writing is all about transparency. And with that, honesty. And so yeah, I’ve written quite a bit about being unable to find a decent man over the past three years (interestingly, just about the amount of time that has elapsed since my last serious relationship… Coincidence? No? Holy shit, it’s not! That article is totally on point and I’m steadfastly getting closer and closer to dying-alone-with-nothing-to-show-for-my-life-but-a-Netflix-account-and-a-freezer-full-of-ice-cream status with every word I type, huh? Wait. NO. I am going to stand in my truth on this one! I’m also going to finish my thought, as I’m pretty sure this parenthetical tangent happens to be in the middle of what should have been a cohesive sentence but has now just become a long schizophrenic ramble about nothing) but at least I’ve never tried to pretend I’m perfect.

With the above in mind, here is my list of three things I have learned about the search for love this year:

1. You don’t have to be perfect to be loved (or to love yourself).

I used to bitch a lot about the concept of self-love being a cliché crock of shit perpetuated by assholes who were already married and therefore never had to put their money where their smug, supposedly self-loving mouths were. But then I devoted this year to my inner journey and realized that maybe I was a little full of shit, too. I read up on spiritual principles, developed a relentless zeal for Oprah’s brilliant series-for-seekers Super Soul Sunday, and adopted a meditation practice. And I realized that I, like everyone else, had some healing to do. So I started reflecting, forgiving, visualizing, and meditating even more. I was doing pretty well. But then I developed a mindset that was all, “Okay, so after enough hours of meditation I’m just going to be perfect and completely healed and self-loving and awesome one hundred percent of the time, and then I’ll be able to allow love into my life. Right?”

IMG_20131202_201754

Sorry, Nic of a few months ago, but no. The path to self-actualization never ends. The only thing that really matters is that we’re making progress and loving ourselves through the process. I’m choosing to believe that my romantic match will agree with me on this. He won’t be perfect himself, and he won’t expect me to be perfect in return. And if he does? He’s not for me. (And furthermore, he’s probably a total douche canoe.)

2. Trying to control outcomes is exhausting and – oh! – pointless.

At the end of the day, Life (capital L, y’all) is gonna do what it do. So I’m going to say that Oprah has it right when she says that love, as with everything else, is all about a) setting an intention (i.e. “I want to meet a quality man who is basically a thirty-year-old version of Nick Jonas except gay and willing to get married and shower me with affection on the regular”); b) taking intuition-led action on that intention (i.e. “I totally just meditated on a love-affirmative mantra, updated my OkCupid profile, and went to a gay bar!”); and then c) surrendering the intention to the universe (i.e. “Okay God, so this isn’t my problem anymore. I’m trusting you to hook me up with my future husband, mmmkay? Thanks!”).

Needless to say, that last step is the hardest part, and yes, I’m still working on it. (Clearly. Or else I wouldn’t be blogging right now, as I’d kind of be busy giving my gay thirty-year-old Nick Jonas husband an epic blowjob.)

2a. Was that last parenthetical TMI?

Probably. But again, writing is all about honesty, right? On that note…

3. Portraying yourself as anything other than someone who can’t find love – when you, in fact, are looking for love and haven’t found it yet – is pretty fucking dishonest.

So, okay. I’m a firm believer that every word we put out there is an energy-carrying affirmation that is likely to manifest itself in our lives in one way or another, so on that level, I’m all about not being whiny and woe-is-me towards love. But I’m also a firm believer that I would be a total asshole if I tried to downplay my struggle over the past few years and cover it up with affirmations like, “Quality men flock to me and love is easy and I’m just, like, flawless! Yay!” (I’d also have absolutely no material, but that’s neither here nor there.)

At the same time, though, I’m not trying to repeat history. And so here is the affirmation I plan to take with me into 2014: “I am grateful for the many valuable lessons I’ve learned from my past romantic misfortunes, and I now know that I am deserving of a healthy partnership with a like-minded man. I trust Life to know when to bring us together. (And until then, I will fucking rock the single life.)”

3a. So now that my inspirational/uplifting moment is over, can we just talk about my gay thirty-year-old Nick Jonas husband character for a second?

I mean, honestly. How perfect would that be? We would be Nic and Nick!

NIC. AND. NICK.

 

I’m Becoming Rational and It Feels Weird (but Good-Weird?)

Last month I met up with my very talented writer buddy Steven to talk about our querying woes. In the middle of the cheesecake portion of our meeting (because with me, there’s always a cheesecake portion, and yes, I’m a Golden Girl), I got a call from a dude I talked to on OkCupid late last year, stopped talking to early this year, and then recently started talking to again in September.

He was calling to plan our much-delayed first date. He suggested hiking, I agreed, and then I hung up and analyzed the fuck out of the situation with Steven, because me.

  • Nic: So. I just agreed to go on a hiking first date. Hiking on a first date – this is a bad idea, huh?
  • Steven: OK, after having read the last few chapters of your manuscript, aren’t all of your dates hiking dates? What’s the problem?
  • Nic: No. There were only two hiking dates in the book, and they were the third and second, respectively. I’ve only ever been on one hiking first date, and that was with Far-Away Guy in August and WE ALL KNOW HOW THAT TUNRED OUT.
  • Steven: Calm down.
  • Nic: I’d rather go to that new beer garden that just opened in my town! Oh my God, this guy’s not the one. The one would have automatically known to suggest the beer garden and not hiking. I should just cancel right now and save us all time.

And that’s when Steven gave me an epic eye roll and was all, “Yeah, Nic. Cancel your date because this man you’ve never met before COULDN’T READ YOUR FUCKING MIND.”

Luckily, I was astute enough to sense Steven’s sarcasm, and so I soon realized that I was being ridiculous.

Also, I remembered that I love hiking. And so I went on the date, and that was four Saturdays ago. And we had a great time, and we’ve since seen each other three more times… and that’s all I’m going to say for now, because I’m starting to think that a four-week layover period between “dating-related thing happening” and “blogging about it” is the perfect recipe for perspective.

I think I just learned how to date (and blog) like a somewhat sane person? It only took me… OK, I just started counting the years, and that shit was depressing. Never mind.

IMG_20130928_131927_648

Taken on the date in question. NOW this is probably all foliage-y… but y’know, four weeks.

I’m Dating Again and Weird Things are Happening as a Result

Actual work conversation that occurred recently when I informed three of my colleagues (let’s call them Robert, Jenny, and Lola) that I had my first date in over six months lined up for later that evening:

  • Jenny: I have an idea! Let’s place bets on what Nic will say about this date tomorrow morning.
  • Robert: I’ll go first. I got five bucks that says he’s gonna be downtrodden and say that the guy was perfect except for one minor flaw that would mean nothing to a normal person but is in fact a complete deal-breaker in Nic-World.
  • Jenny: Good one – like, the guy won’t be an Oprah fan or something.
  • Lola: My guess is that he comes in bitching about the fact that his date checked out the waitress’s boobs and is therefore probably bisexual—yet another deal-breaker in Nic-World.
  • Jenny: Or he’ll come in and be like, “Ugh. I like him… But we have the same taste in movies, so that probably means we can only be friends.”
  • Me: Seriously, y’all? Not ONE of you is going to bet that my first date after a six-month spiritually-awakening sabbatical is going to go amazingly well and lead to a reciprocally fulfilling relationship based on trust, honesty, and mutual self-respect?
  • All three of them, in unison: No.

The next morning…

  • Me: Well, you guys. I just. It’s like… I don’t know. I didn’t like his energy.
  • Robert: I WIN!

I guess he kind of did win, but I’d like it noted that I was so not downtrodden about the situation. If anything, I was joyful and at peace — because even though this dude was normal, good-looking, and smart, he was also all “LOL that’s impossible” when I told him about my dream to eventually be a full-time author, and ain’t nobody got time for cynical dream-squashers who don’t believe in miracles.

In my date’s defense, though, I should share that there was a moment during dinner when I said, “I’d really love to be trapped in a room with your grandmother,” and I think he might have taken it the wrong way. What I meant was that, even though I’m not Jewish, I’ve always been fascinated with Yiddish terms – and so when he told me that his grandmother was a master in the dialect, I figured that being trapped in a room with her would be a golden opportunity. In retrospect, however, I realize it could have come off as predatory, inappropriate, and vaguely heterosexual — and why would he want to believe in my dreams at that point?

Moving on. In totally unrelated news, this happened on Monday:

Screen shot 2013-08-16 at 10.47.15 AMOh my God, you guys. It was huge and disgusting and it was also kind of doing the Crip Walk and I screamed and I cried and I no longer feel safe in my own work environment, BUT I’m still alive, so I guess that’s the silver lining in all of this. Like Beyoncé, Michelle, and Kelly circa 2001, I’m a Survivor.

 

An Open Letter to the Guy Who Stole My Identity on Plenty of Fish

Hello.

First of all, you’re kind of an asshole. By using my picture in your Catfish-esque schemes, you’ve made me feel violated, disillusioned, and only a little flattered. It’s like I’m a strange combination of an attractive person, Sandra Bullock in the forgotten nineties gem The Net, and whoever the girl was that the gay dude utilized to make Manti Te’o fall in love with him. It’s just all so weird and confusing.

But fine. I’m not that mad at you. I understand that this photo of me pretending to be good at golf is a form of bait practically guaranteed to reel in a whole host of quality guys.

Golf

Ha, ha — NOT!

If you wanted a photo of me that was going to attract hot gay dudes to your online dating profile, you should have just contacted me directly for suggestions. And then I would have told you that no such photo exists, because — believe me — I’ve tried all of them myself.

On some level, I guess I commend you. You could have stuck with the standard amateur shirtless model technique, but instead you chose to think outside the box and steal the photo of an intellectual who’s into writing, golfing, and white undershirts. Props to you for your creative efforts!

But you’ve still failed. Because no matter how you look at this situation, you’re living a lie. Speaking of lies, can we just talk about the atrocious content of the profile that you’ve paired with my picture?

Here’s a particularly painful excerpt:

“…in shape toned white males… Would prefer a masculine guy who is in good shape, thin or athletic, str8 actin…. who likes older(but not old!)guyz…. (i look like i’m in my mid 20′s …..no kids here to wear me out : ) I am NOT into queens (nothing personal …just cant relate) and def not terrorists!”

A few things:

  1. We get it – you’re looking for a guy with a nice body. But may I ask why you feel the need to discriminate so strongly against fat people? This is a super sensitive issue for me, a former fat kid. I’m still yet to recover from the traumatic experience of being called fat by a guy I dated last summer – so the fact that you’ve now associated my image with the shallow preoccupation with hot bodies that persists in the gay community is just not okay. (But I mean, thanks for the implication that I look thin enough in the picture to be a fat-hating jerk, I guess.)
  2. The whole “white males only” thing is hilariously ironic because the person who tipped me off to the fact your fake profile existed in the first place was my black ex-boyfriend.
  3. If the other side of my hat were visible, you’d see that it reads NYU. Yes, I have a master’s degree, and I’m pretty sure they don’t give those out to people with your grammar situation. Or to people who write things like “str8.”
  4. Speaking of straightness, why are you so prejudice against feminine-acting gay guys? I mean, your internalized homophobia is really a whole other discussion, but you’re kind of a douche bag.
  5. Oh, people tell you that you look like you’re in your twenties? That’s because I’M IN MY TWENTIES, YOU FILTHY PIECE OF HUMAN GARBAGE!

All in all, you’ve managed to create an identity around my picture that embodies the exact type of person I would strongly hate in real life. So if my letter to you seems condescending or straight up mean, that’s because it is. I’m offended and confused and hurt and even a little angry.

Listen, I understand that we’re all looking for something in this life, and the Internet makes it easy to play these weird, Catfish-y games and see “what if?” while being totally creepy and stealing others’ identities — but you should know that you stole the picture of someone who clearly has a whole host of complexities and anxiety issues himself, and it’s clear that you have many of your own, so why go there? We’re all human.

Why not just be you? Own those issues of yours that make you want to jump out of your own skin and into mine. And then work on them. Look at yourself and do something, because my skin won’t solve any of your problems or magically make you a more desirable person. It’s not any better or worse than yours.

But it is mine, and I think I at least deserve to hold on to that.

Sincerely,

The Real Nic

P.S. One more thing about your profile content: While it’s nice that you specify that you’re not into terrorists, I’m pretty sure that goes without saying for everybody ever. Like, the fact that you actually make it a point to say “definitely no terrorists” kind of makes me suspicious that you are one yourself. Oh my God, shit — you are, aren’t you? Am I going to be viciously attacked for writing this public letter to you? You know what? I take it all back. Please feel free to keep using my picture, just don’t attack me.

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:

:(

 

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