The Dildos Are (Not) Coming!

June 6, 2013 By 17 Comments

So this one time at a holiday party in New York City, I had a melodramatic breakdown in front the entire room. We were playing this weird anonymous gift-exchanging game, and when it was my turn, I somehow ended up publicly unwrapping a package that featured a thong-wearing topless woman with a Kardashian-esque ass on the box. Realizing that it was clearly a sex toy, I turned bright red and panicked and threw the gift on the table in a really theatrical, over-the-top fashion – all while screaming, “I CAN’T DO THIS. I’M FROM CONNECTICUT!”

So a few days ago when marketing people for sex toy-selling juggernaut Adam & Eve asked me if they could sponsor a guest post on my blog, I thought one thing: What a great opportunity to “pull a Miley Cyrus” and shed my virginal good-girl image!

And then I thought about how it would be great to have some new energy up in here, especially since I’ve been regrettably absent due to the BOOK THAT IS TAKING OVER MY LIFE.

But then I thought about that episode of Sex and the City when Charlotte discovered vibrators and became addicted to the Rabbit – to the point where an intervention was required – and I asked myself, “Do I really want to contribute to someone else’s potential Rabbit addiction?”

I also asked myself,  “Wouldn’t letting a sex toy company write a ‘guest post’ for me essentially be like selling out? Selling out for a dildo?”

And that’s when I realized that as much as I believe in the healing power of dildos, I’m not quite sure Keychanges is the place for them to be unironically pimped out. And if it is the place for them to be unironically pimped out, they’d have to be pimped out in a straightforward, ad-on-the-side-of-the-page kind of way. Not a let-me-deceive-Google’s-search-mechanisms-by-letting-a-company-steal-my-voice-for-a-post kind of way. I’m basically the Little Mermaid in this scenario.

Not that I mean to call Adam & Eve Ursula, but I mean, if the shoe fits.

Ultimately, I guess what I’m trying to say with all of this is that (a) I have integrity, (b) I may or may not be a mermaid (or a “mergayd,” if you will), and (c) I just saved y’all from a potential dildo invasion.

Aren’t you loving me so much right now?

(Note: If you’re actually really into dildo invasions, then please don’t answer that question. And I apologize for ruining your day.)

 

Filed Under: Administrative, Random Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,

How to Not Have Nipples Show

May 24, 2013 By 21 Comments

I don’t mean to get too personal, but lately my nipples have been like, really unruly.

I normally have nothing but love for my nips, but it seems that nowadays they’re always inexplicably visible for no good reason. It’s exhausting. Even when it’s totally not cold and my shirt is totally not thin and I’m totally not pregnant, they just keep appearing through all varieties of fabric as if to say, “HEY GURL! WANNA GET SOME DRAAANKS?”

I can’t get them to calm down. The whole thing reminds me of the old adage that goes, “After a nuclear holocaust there will only be cockroaches and Cher left.” Or something? Did I make up the Cher part? I feel like I remember her saying that on Behind the Music one time. Or maybe I’m getting Cher confused with underground bomb shelters? In any case, what I’m trying to say here is that the real version of the saying should be, “After a nuclear holocaust there will only be cockroaches and Cher and bomb shelters and Nic’s relentless nipples left.”

The other day, I was having a particularly nippular morning.

(Yes, I’m making up words now. And you’re welcome because don’t even try to pretend that you’re not going to start describing everything ever as “nippular” – especially female puppies in heat and Anne Hathaway in general.)

Fed up with my unfortunate circumstance, I took to Google and searched for “how to not have nipples show,” which yielded very few relevant results because apparently I don’t know how to formulate proper sentences. It’s totally fine now though, because the next person to perform a poorly-worded search on this subject will at least be directed to the title of this post and then realize that their life isn’t so bad because (a) they’re not alone in their nippular struggles, and (b) they’ll get to add their name to that famous apocalypse quote, and cockroaches notwithstanding, who doesn’t want to be in the same category as Cher and my nipples?

The information I did manage to find via Google was so, just… not what I was looking for.

I ended up on a site maintained by a woman who calls herself “Linda the Bra Lady,” which actually sounds like the name of someone I could totally be best friends with, but not someone who would have any solutions to male nipple problems – unless of course her advice would be for me to wear a bra, in which case I’d have to tear my shirt off to show her that I absolutely do not have moobs while simultaneously Christina Aguilera-ing her with a melodramatic screaming of, “I AM BEAUTIFUL NO MATTER WHAT YOU SAY!”

(Can we just talk about using Christina Aguilera as a verb for a second? I’m obsessed and now plan on Christina Aguilera-ing at least two people in real life today.)

After I recovered from Linda calling me fat in my head, I ended up on Yahoo! Answers, which was a terrible mistake because THIS:

Screen shot 2013-05-24 at 3.25.39 PMA few things:

  1. Yahoo, what exactly do you mean by “resolved”? Did you give Princess nipples? If so, then can you give me new ones?
  2. Something — and by “something” I mean the spelling and punctuation in this query — makes me wonder if Princess actually had nipples all along but just wasn’t looking in the right place.
  3. I thought the question itself was absurd, but then I read the responses. Click that link at your own risk, y’all.

I surveyed some coworkers about my dilemma, and at some point the whole scene took a highly inappropriate turn when I started obnoxiously massaging my chest in thought and then shot out of my chair and proclaimed, “I’ve got it! SIGN HERE STICKERS.”

You know, those stickers you’d put on a letter and/or legal agreement (and/or nipple) to ensure they get properly endorsed? Well, I took two of them out and put them down my shirt and I wish I were kidding but they actually worked wonders and even solicited a puzzled-yet-really-really-impressed look from one of my work-wives.

She stood quietly in awe for a moment, seemingly trying to figure out what planet I’m from, but then finally just said, “You know what? That’s actually kind of brilliant.”

IMG_20130524_114628_348

Sign here… ON MY OVERACTIVE NIPPLE.

You. Are. All. Welcome.

Filed Under: Life, Random Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

I Wore My Pedometer to the Club and Took 10,000 Steps in the Name of Love

May 7, 2013 By 19 Comments

My company participates in this program where we get paid little mini-bonuses for wearing work-sponsored pedometers and taking steps. Something about having healthy, active employees and saving on insurance costs? IDK, but I love free money – so I have of course been wearing it on the regular and taking all kinds of superfluous steps whenever possible because in the back of my mind I’m always like, Dude, you can wait for a parking spot that’s twenty feet closer to the Cheesecake Factory Vitamin Shoppe, or you can take the crappy space, burn some calories, and make a extra buck while you’re at it. WHAT’S IT GONNA BE, FATTY?

(Then I cancel that last thought out because calling myself fat is a result of fear-based thinking, and I’m so over fear-based thinking, and have I mentioned that I’m super fit?)

Anyway. This past Saturday, I strapped on my pedometer along with my favorite pair of Banana Republic khakis and attended a charity event at my alma mater thrown by my one of my best friends.

It was freakin’ awesome for three reasons.

  1. I love supporting good causes – especially when supporting a good cause involves going back to the school where I lost my virginity, thereby leading me into a whole self-reflective, forgiving, aware-of-my-incredible-growth-over-the-past-seven-years space. (So basically I love supporting good causes when I get to remove the cause itself from the equation and make the experience all about me… This could be the mark of a horrible person, but I’m not going to go down that road.)
  2. There was a MASHED PO-TINI BAR. This involves martini glasses, mashed potatoes, and a heart-unhealthy selection of toppings (sour cream, bacon, cheese, chili, shame, etc.) – like a salad bar only more delicious and with a corny pun. Mashed po-tinis are amazing, and can we make them a thing like, immediately? #mashedpotini.
  3. It was a loving, healing, and just plain ol’ fun time. I saw old college friends, danced to big band music, and witnessed an a cappella group sing the best song ever – “Always Be My Baby” by Mariah Carey, obviously – which was cosmically perfect because it just so happens that we’re about to have a cicada season in Connecticut.

If you don’t know about cicadas, then (one) I envy you, and (two) they are loud, gross-looking bugs that only emerge every 17 years and wreak havoc for two weeks until they die again.

The last time we had cicadas, I was eight years old. It was 1996 and I was obsessed with Mariah’s Daydream album. I distinctly remember watching the video for “Always Be My Baby” and wondering where all the cicadas were in the woodsy, marshy area she seemed to be so comfortably frolicking in. (I was pretty much an eight-year-old version of the Wendy’s “Wheeere’s the beef?” lady, except I was all “Wheeere’re the cicadas?!”)

So for the past week, in anticipation of the locust-like creatures, I’ve been going on nightly after-dinner walks reflecting on my early years and listening to “Always Be My Baby” while paying honor to my inner child. So when the a cappella group randomly chose to sing that song of ALL songs on Saturday, it was one of those incredible moments that would seem like no big deal to most people but to me was most definitely God being all like, “Whassup Nic?”

In short, this event made me feel all kinds of love. And I’ve been feeling all kinds of love all the time lately. And when I’m feeling all kinds of love, I kind of just want to dance. So I did something crazy on my way home that night – I stopped at a gay club.

Alone.

I sat in the parking lot for two minutes before going in, telling myself that I was there for one reason only: to shake my groove thang. No expectations, no need to seek validation from anyone, no irrational ego-based fears of being judged – just me standing – make that dancing – in my truth.

And I did it! I held it down on the floor song after song, having my very own self-loving private party – except totally in public. It was kind of the best thing ever.

Interestingly enough, it seemed that my whole loving energy field actually drew people to me, most of whom I shared only a brief moment or two with until deciding that I wanted to keep rocking out on my own.

Then there was this one handsome gentleman who kept making his way back to me despite my noncommittal demeanor towards dance floor location. I finally just embraced his energy and we communicated in this crazy, wordless way that I kind of knew was probably only sexual on his part. Still, I was willing to overlook it in an effort to view him as the innocent child that he once was (this is a fun game I’ve been playing with everyone I meet lately… it’s especially effective with mean people). My mind wandered, and I found myself wondering where he was during the 1996 cicada invasion.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he tried to kiss me. While the old Nic would have probably been like “Scooore! Maybe we can get married?” I decided to be the new Nic in this moment. [KEY CHANGE ALERT!]

I politely turned my head, coughed laughed, and yelled to him that I was “just here to dance, but you’re really cute!”

It was the truth. I wasn’t there to make out with random dudes; I was just there to dance – and, in a broader sense, to love myself.

And so that’s what I did – step by step, one step at a time, 10,000 pedometer-counted times. (Cha-ching!)

Screen shot 2013-05-07 at 6.31.55 AM

*This is a photo I found on a bar’s website from many years ago. Look at baby Nic being all intense and dance-y! Also, the year was 2010. Do you love how warped my sense of time is?

Filed Under: Life, Love Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , ,

No Fear, Lots of Love, and Maybe a Tunic

April 28, 2013 By 18 Comments

Here’s an instant message conversation that took place between my work-wife Mila and me the other day:

  • Mila: I’m wearing sunglasses today because I feel like a rock star for once.
  • Nic: You are a rock star always! Speaking of sun and glasses, I see the light of God in you.
  • Mila: I just want you to know that lately I’ve been picturing you wearing a white tunic when you say all of these positive things to me.
  • Nic: LOL.
  • Mila: Seriously dude. A white tunic.

She has a point. A white tunic would really compliment my holistic demeanor as of late. I’ve been all about positivity. Which means I’ve been all about my spiritual journey. Which means I’ve been all about love. Which means I’ve been thinking things like, Damn. It’s such a shame that the word “love” is as abused as it is these days.

In addition to abused: overused, diluted, undervalued, demeaned, clichéd, misunderstood.

I’ve misunderstood the concept of love for, I don’t know, about 25 of my 25 years here on Earth. But the other day I was listening to an India.Arie song called “The Wings of Forgiveness,” and thought to myself, Wow, she gets it.

Then I was all, OMG does that mean I get it?

I don’t know if I’m totally there yet, but I’m amazed at just how much perspective I’ve gained over the past few months. I’m well on my way.

I owe much of this to the fact that I’ve been reading Marianne Williamson’s seminal New Age-y masterpiece, A Return to Love every night during American Idol commercial breaks while sipping on herbal tea and donning a peaceful and enlightened half-smile. (You’re picturing me in that tunic right now, aren’t you?)

931407_760218704042_967155899_n

…But for real, though.

There’s no way I could characterize the power of this book (which is based on the insanely long yet insanely the-answer-to-everything-ever-ish spiritual textbook A Course In Miracles) in a little ol’ Keychanges blog post, but if there’s one principle I’d say has resonated strongly with me it’s that love is the exact opposite of fear. Love is a thing, and fear is so not a thing, but fear is the root of pretty much all negative things, and negative things aren’t actually things at all in the first place, because love is THE ONLY THING.

Have I lost you yet?

…THING!

What I mean to say here is that love is real and everything else is an illusion based on fear. Our egos are nothing more than fear, blocking us from getting to the love that we often don’t allow ourselves to step into.

So the road to happiness and honestly loving ourselves and others involves recognizing and letting go of these fears.

(Now think about THAT for a second.)

(…Deep, huh?)

More often than not, letting go of fear means truly, truly forgiving people – including our parents, ideal-shattering ex-boyfriends, those who’ve called us fat, ourselves, etc. It’s not easy, but it’s powerful.

I’ve already started stopping myself in the midst of my every day situations to close my eyes and say, “Hold the phone, brother Nic. [Yes, I’m referring to myself as my own brother. IDK, it kinda works?] Are you reacting with fear or love right now? FEAR OR LOVE? YOU CAN’T HAVE BOTH!”

And then I breathe. And then I forgive someone.

And then I choose love.

 

Filed Under: Life, Love Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

I Think This is Called Growth

April 13, 2013 By 11 Comments

So, I have missed blogging. And Keychanges. And y’all. And Debelah Morgan, singer of the infectiously feel-good 2000 pop hit, “Dance With Me,” but that’s for another post.

Despite my blog-homesickness, my recent month-long sojourn has been crazy productive, and I’m as excited as a Leprechaun in a pot o’ gold (…I don’t even know) to write about what’s been happening in my life. Remember how at the beginning of the year I went all No Fool, No More (shout-out En Vogue!) on the Internet and wrote about how I’d be officially giving up unavailable men? Well, I’m currently four months strong. As my mom would say, Holla!

I’ve been in a very self-loving, self-improving, self-awesome space lately – which actually led to me inadvertently giving up all men – yet another reason for my blogging absence. Writing about desperation, food addiction, and general inadequacy? That’s so 2012!

So far this year I’ve realized that a) I’m pretty much amazing, b) I’m not fat, and c) I may not want a relationship right now after all. And I certainly don’t need one.

Talk about some freakin’ key changes – am I right?

After all of the absurdity I’ve documented here on my tumultuous search for post-grad-school love, I’ve finally started to look within – something I used to vehemently avoid, as I found the concept of self-love to be impossible and stupid and only for self-important, self-absorbed douchebags.

Like most good things, my journey toward self-love began with Oprah. Her Super Soul Sunday series will really make you think about shit. As a result of watching it, I’ve identified elements of society, my past, etc. that have all resulted in thought and action patterns that weren’t doing me any damn favors on my search for fulfillment. I recognized that a lot of my issues were with other gay folk – so rather than continue to cast myself in the role of “outcast” in our sometimes tragically anti-community community, I decided to write another piece for the Advocate that addresses how we can all use self-love and vulnerability to grow stronger together.

Read it HERE! But be sure to come back home to momma Oprah my blog when you’re done.

With my proclamation came lots of anti-Oprah vitriol from people who didn’t even bother to read the piece – lest they get a strong dose of truth and consequently melt or something – which pretty much hilariously proved my point in the article about how we need to stop being assholes and just start transmitting vibrations of love rather than superiority.

But thankfully, the piece also proved that there are some really, really great gay dudes out there who totally “get it.”

Like this guy Stephen (ignore Karl, he was having a bad day):

Screen shot 2013-04-13 at 11.18.00 AM

Or like the many others who took the time to e-mail, message, or tweet me with anecdotes about how the article resonated with them. It was inspiring, and felt great to have feedback that was more along the lines of “Wow – powerful message. Thank you for that!” rather than my usual supportive feedback which tends to be more of an admittedly baited, “You’re not fat!” (But I mean, please don’t stop with those – that phrase is music to my slightly obese — kidding! — ears and I obviously can’t hear it enough.)

Speaking of fatness – while I inadvertently gave up men, I also inadvertently lost ten pounds! Well, not totally inadvertently – I did start going to the gym five days a week and eating healthier, but it was more so because I realized that endorphins make me happy and less so because some guy struggling with his own myriad body and emotional issues told me to.

So, yeah. Things are going pretty well these days. And I guess that’s all I’m trying to say with this post – life is good, I love you all, and I’m still wholly devoted to and grateful for blogging and this blog and your blogs and, really, the word “blog” in general. Blog.

Blog!

 

Filed Under: Dating, Life, Love Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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

March 23, 2013 By 23 Comments

(Note: This article originally appeared on Thought Catalog and yes, I’m double dipping and no, I don’t have any weird mouth STDs… so you’re good.)

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.

 

Filed Under: Dating, Random Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,

I’ve Been Violated and Also Here are Some Life Updates

March 15, 2013 By 15 Comments

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:

:(

 

Filed Under: Dating, Emotional Meltdowns Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

My New Distrust of Online Daters is Becoming a Problem

February 27, 2013 By 34 Comments

It seems that my recent experience as an online creeper compounded with the success of MTV’s hit show Catfish, along with a dream I recently had about the Craigslist Killer, has all resulted in my new generalized distrust of the entire online dating community at large.

It’s bad.

For example, I had a date with a very attractive, somewhat older man scheduled for Sunday night, but ended up using “he could be a psychopath with a peeing fetish who wants to maim me” as an excuse to cancel our plans so I could stay home and eat Chinese food while live-tweeting the Oscars. (It was so worth it, P.S.)

We rescheduled for Friday, so you can imagine my astonishment on Tuesday morning when he texted me to see if I was free for a weekday glass of wine after work. Caught off guard and still a little hypnotized by his hot profile picture, I agreed.

Then I got to work and started over-analyzing the whole situation in three separate conversations with my work-wives Jenny, Lola, and Mila. (If you haven’t been following me for too long, allow me to explain: I’m a polygamist in my professional life.)

Here’s a composite, abridged version of all three discussions:

  • Nic: Why did he suddenly change from Friday to Tuesday? Is this what murderers do?!
  • Jenny: I mean… I don’t know. His picture seems like it could maybe be photoshopped, and that makes me not trust him.
  • Nic: You’re right. I’M HIS PREY.
  • Lola: Where’s this guy from originally?
  • Nic: Canada.
  • Lola: DON’T DO IT!
  • Nic: If tonight ends in tragedy and later becomes a Lifetime move, please tell me you’ll see to it that they cast a skinny actor to play me. He doesn’t even have to be that famous – I think it could actually be an exciting role for a young up-and-comer — you know? Someone with raw talent. But if it comes down to making a choice between raw talent and physical fitness, please go with the in-shape one.
  • Mila: John Krasinski will of course play you. Who will play me?
  • Nic: Wow, you’re so right. And oh yeah, you! You are totally a part of the arch of this story, since I first told you about this guy last night at the Solange concert.
  • Mila: …
  • Nic: Okay, so Solange will make an appearance in the film as herself. And you… Mila Kunis! Yes, she so beyond Lifetime, but she’ll be so drawn to this story that she won’t be able to say no.
Is that a Nic bobble head or a John Krasinski bobble head? Hard to tell. (Ignore the V8... I don't even have an explanation.)

Is that a Nic bobble head or a John Krasinski bobble head? Hard to tell. (Ignore the V8… I don’t even have an explanation.)

So. I proceeded to Google the crap out of the limited information I had on this guy (first name, hometown, current city) and found pretty much nothing — except for a profile from some creepy looking dude on Meetup.com that had all of the same characteristics as my guy but was NOT the man from the photos. This one was scary looking and had a profile blurb that said, “I’m dissatisfied enough with real life to occasionally escape to different dimensions.”

Oh. My. God – I KNOW!

I became instantly convinced that this dude was actually the guy I was talking to — because, I mean, same name, same cities, AND essentially admitting that he enjoys “playing pretend” — it was too obvious. I quickly realized that I was the target of a murderous scheme but also decided that I was too curious about the whole thing to actually cancel yet another date with him. (Plus there were no epic award shows this time to incentivize me. I mean, I guess survival would be reason enough for most people, but I apparently need to reevaluate my priorities.)

So then I thought to myself, Maybe I should have a co-worker film me engaging in conversation with someone right now so that they could later send the video to Krasinski and he could use it as “character research,” but decided against it because I figured that I was too out of sorts in the moment to really portray my natural self on camera.

So instead I spent the rest of the day answering my date’s texts in a very wary, treading-carefully-because-I’m-talking-to-a-predator kind of way, and decided that when he showed up for the date, I’d do my best to feign shock that he isn’t the guy in his pictures and then dramatically barrel out of the bar to hail a cab and have it drive me forty miles into New York and back before taking me to my real home.

And then, a few hours later, the evening finally rolled around. And I went on the date, and – thank God – I did not have to do any of the above. Because he actually was who he said he was and we hit it off and I had a fantastic time, and he wasn’t the crazy one after all — I was.

Because, of course.

 

Filed Under: Dating, Emotional Meltdowns Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,
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