I’m Going to Need Jonah Hill to Acknowledge That We Were Once Twins

This isn’t an actual post. Really, it’s a call to action. Because last week I posted a Throwback Thursday pic on Instagram and it looked like this…Yrbook…and I fucking KNOW, right? The Jonah Hill resemblance is uncanny and more than a little Sci-Fi-esque and separated-at-birth-y.

The weirdest thing is that I look absolutely nothing like him as an adult, so this whole situation truly is, as stated in the above Instagram caption, a mysterious riddle. A mysterious riddle that must be solved.

When I first noticed, I wondered if it was the universe pulling a hilarious switcheroo (I just wrote “switcheroo”), and that maybe Jonah’s childhood yearbook photo actually looks like adult me.

But I looked it up, and no. Instead it’s basically just a black and white variation of the one I posted above.

jonah2

Does anyone else think this is crazy? And that there has to be some kind of method to this madness? And that Jonah Hill probably knows something the rest of us do not?

Because I do.

I also need a new celebrity to harass on Twitter, because I’m fairly certain Celine Dion’s people are two tweets and a Facebook comment away from filing a restraining order against me on her behalf. We’re not adopting a cat together. It’s fine.

All of the above is to say that I’d like to propose a campaign to get Jonah to react to this obviously cosmic connection and also make me famous. If you’d like to participate, feel free to tweet this article at him using the hashtag #JonahNicMysteriousRiddle, because I clearly want to cock-block my chances of ever making it trend by making it a thousand letters. And if you’d rather not participate because you think it’s invasive and/or have a life, don’t worry — I’ll probably be nagging him enough for all of us anyway.

 

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My Day as a Psycho Celebrity-Spammer on Twitter

So, let’s talk about CELINE FUCKING DION. (You’re welcome.)

This story starts a few months ago, when some literary agents were telling me that my author platform wasn’t strong enough to warrant a book deal in today’s sure bet-driven marketplace. Which, in other words, means that I don’t have enough Twitter followers. Which, in other words, means that I’m not popular enough. Which, in other words, means that the publishing industry is basically Mean Girls and — Oh my God, Danny DeVito I love your work!

The fucked up thing about it is that if I actually did have a hundred thousand Twitter followers, I’d probably be one of those entitled, douche-y assholes who’s all, “Duh. Get with the times. Of course I have a huge platform; what do you think I am? A loser?

So maybe I’m a hypocrite, it’s fine.

One day in March, coming off the bitter sting of a fresh rejection, I was IM-ing with my friend Kaci.

  • Nic: Ugh. Still not popular enough
  • Nic: How do I get more followers on Twitter???
  • Nic: Maybe I should just start harassing celebrities in hopes that they’ll retweet me?
  • Nic: Which ones, though?
  • Kaci: Celine
  • Kaci: obvi
  • Kaci: I need to start getting cats and committing to dying alone
  • Nic: That’s it!
  • Nic: I’ll ask Celine to adopt a cat with me

And then a monster was born.

1

RE: the whole “Aegean” thing: basically I just Googled “cat breeds” and then chose the one that I felt would read most elegantly within the context of a tweet to Celine Dion. But apparently my elegance didn’t matter, because Celine ignored me as if I were a creepy Internet weirdo or something.

But then! I figured out why:

2

Still nothing. So then I moved into the anger stage and was all, “Fuck Celine! I’ll branch out to… Martha Stewart.”

3 4

DROP G’S! I thought it was brilliant. But Martha clearly wasn’t amused, as she ignored me too, forcing me to wonder if maybe my Internet fame wouldn’t be best found through middle-aged divas (one musical, one domestic) catered to the daytime-TV-watching crowd, so I went after the Jonas Brothers.

5 6

BUT NO LUCK THERE. (On the kitten or the marriage.)

So then I went back to Celine in a final, desperate attempt to get her to at least adopt something with me, but for some reason by that point in the day I became an incoherent mess who required three tweets to finish a thought and close a set of parentheses:

7 8 9

Celine continued in her staunch dedication to not acknowledging that a crazy person was spamming her on Twitter, which made me frustrated.

Frazzled and feeling like if I didn’t get at least one celebrity retweet by day’s end that I’d NEVER GET PUBLISHED, LIKE, EVER, I proceeded to do this:

10

By the end of it all, I reviewed my timeline’s activity and felt highly, highly ashamed of myself. Who does shit like this? I wondered. This is pathetic and embarrassing.

But then my thoughts wandered into a more gratitude-y place — feeling relieved that, well, at least I didn’t have a hundred thousand followers watching.

 

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:

:(

 

Cruel Intentions is the Best Movie Ever, and I Have the Tweets and Emotional Issues to Prove It

If there were an Oscar category for “Most Perfect Teen Movie that Totally Transcends the Category of Teen Movies and Makes a Deep Statement About Love and Trust and Innocence and the Human Condition at Large,” then Roger Kumble’s 1999 drama Cruel Intentions would so be the winner.

Cruel Intentions is a genius high school adaptation of Dangerous Liaisons set in wealthy upper Manhattan well before Gossip Girl was a thing.

It stars the hottest, most damaged version of Ryan Phillippe ever, and — actually, wait, why am I doing a synopsis? If you haven’t seen this movie, then I think we’re going to have to stop being friends until you do some real soul-searching and address the major deficiency in your character as a result of having never been exposed to this masterpiece of a film in the whole fourteen years since its groundbreaking release.

I recently made one of the best decisions of my life when I stayed home on a Friday night to re-watch it for the first time in two years (a record for me).

Here I am live-tweeting the event, and you’re welcome in advance:

Screen shot 2013-01-19 at 12.13.33 PM

Wait for it…

Screen shot 2013-01-19 at 12.13.54 PM

And three hours later…

Screen shot 2013-01-19 at 12.14.20 PM

Impressively, I only lost four followers that day.

You may be wondering why this film has the ability to move me to tears (and tweets), and well, I can’t answer that question in any simple terms. I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that I always fall for Sebastians — you know, heartless yet insanely charming men who want nothing more than to jump from bed to bed without ever actually getting emotionally invested in anyone or anything.

Everyone always gives the classic argument that “you can’t make a man like that change” — and yet, in Cruel Intentions, someone changes him. The jerk falls in love! And with a sweet, innocent good girl — a virgin, even — named Annette.

And so my life’s goal has been to be the gay male version of Annette. And I’ve failed in this quest with like, I don’t know, fourteen-thousand Sebastians or something. And so when I watch Cruel Intentions, I get very emotional over the fact that it’s a cruel reminder (see what I did there?) of the fact that Annettes only exist in the movies.

And even then, the Sebastian dies — so the moral of the story is that LOVE NEVER WORKS AND HOW CAN YOU NOT HAVE AN EMOTIONAL REACTION TO THAT?

dvd

This movie is just… I just… Stick a fork in me, I am done.

 

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.

 

Wilson Cruz Responds to Prada Post; Nic Cheats on Chipotle with Lesser-Known Sandwich Shop ‘Wichcraft

It seems that I am now on a full-out crusade to accumulate as many marriage proposals via Twitter as humanly possible… because I’m that needy.

Chipotle started it.

So. Because he’s awesome, Wilson Cruz (aka Rickie from My So-Called Life, aka that gay guy that you loved in He’s Just Not That Into You) read my last post. In it, I discussed how I failed at stalking Wilson at the Met and was upset about having lost out on the chance to tell him how much I adored his 1997 Ally McBeal cameo.

Through the perfection of Twitter, he responded:

Not quite a marriage proposal, but I’m glad that he appreciates the love.

I countered with, “And I’m now complete! Twitter is so ideal,” hoping he’d come back with something like, “Nic, will you marry me?”

Instead, I got this disappointingly apropos reply:

I’m still trying to figure out if I could viably make the argument that the subtext of Isn’t it? could be something to the effect of I love you too and would like for us to get married and adopt international babies within the next two years. Feel free to share your thoughts.

Later that day, I was having a Twitter-discussion with Ginger Clark (fiction literary agent extraordinaire at Curtis Brown) about the deliciousness of sandwich mini-chain ‘wichcraft.

Naturally, this ended up happening:

I of course responded with an emphatic “I DO!”

Within moments, the folks at ‘wichcraft officially weighed in and gave their blessing:

I’m sorry, Chipotle. While I have never been unfaithful in a human relationship, it seems I have less self-control when it comes to anything edible.

But this we knew.

(Between myself and Kristen Stewart, this was not a good week for monogamy.)

I find it hilarious that my second-ever proposal, just like my first, came from the official Twitter account of a casual dining establishment.

Though, I guess this wasn’t really ‘wichcraft proposing to me as much as it was Ginger officiating my marriage to a BLT and ‘wichcraft just offering lukewarm congratulations.

But I’ll totally take it.

Though an unambiguous Twitter-proposal from a real-life gay man would be nice.

…WAIT!

I must retract everything I’ve just written, because it just occurred to me that I have been proposed to via Twitter — explicitly and by a real-life gay man! It happened weeks ago, and I totally forgot to tell y’all.

The best/most surreal part: it came from one of my all-time favorite authors, Joel Derfner (read my review of his book Swish here) after he read “Not OK, Cupid.”

Marry me at once. No ambiguity there! (And yes, of course I will.)

(For clarity’s sake, I should mention that Joel was merely being polite. He is actually happily gay-married in real life. I’m only like, 98% jealous.)

It’s funny that the best Twitter marriage proposal I’ve received to date actually occurred before I ever even started desperately trying to accumulate them. It seems that when it comes to the quest for marriage proposals, trying = failing.

Or rather, trying = succeeding at finding love and companionship in food items only.

Thanks, universe — message received. (Again.)

 

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