Here is a (truncated, punctuated, and spell-corrected version of a) text message conversation that took place between my brother’s girlfriend and me at the Patriots game on Sunday:
- Nic: Your boyfriend is such a gentleman.
- Brother’s Girlfriend: Are you sure you’re referring to the right person?
- Nic: Some girl in the row behind us is touching his head and he keeps angrily telling her to stop. Pretty romantic, I think. Meanwhile I keep secretly wishing she would touch my head.
- Nic: Just for the validation of someone finding me desirable.
- Nic: But NOOO, she touches my uncle’s head before she touches mine! I’m fat and ugly.
- BGF: Haha, who is this girl touching everyone?!
- BGF: Everyone but you.*
- Nic: IDK! She just touched my dad’s head.
- BGF: So even if she touches your head now, at this point it would just be an afterthought.
- Nic: I’m the fattest person ever.
- BGF: No way dude!
- BGF: Clearly she’s drunk and thinks she already touched your head.
- Nic: You’re right, maybe that’s it! Or maybe she’s afraid to touch my head because she secretly likes me the most.
- Nic: Or maybe I’m delusional.
- BGF: No. She’s in love with you and doesn’t want to ruin her chances by treating you like all the others.
- Nic: I feel a little better now.
And then I got distracted because there was a football game happening in front of me. And then Gronkowski broke his arm and I internally cried like a baby over my team losing the best tight end in the league for essentially the rest of the season. And then I cried even more over the fact that I was rejected by a drunk, head-touching woman. And then the drunk, head-touching woman FINALLY touched my head, and I was dismayed to learn (yet again) that a slight expression of validation didn’t solve all of my problems.
This is kind of the best place ever.
And I’ve now written yet another blog post that highlights my extreme need for therapy. I’m thinking that for my first session, I should just print out every post I’ve ever written, hand them to the therapist in a neat stack and say, “Please read these and fix me.”
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P.S. I am fully aware that my whole being gay thing should have eliminated any interest or concern with the drunk, head-touching woman whatsoever — but this post clearly proves that low self-esteem knows no gender.
P.P.S. I’m currently writing this blog from the Metro North train, and I just made the BIGGEST SCENE EVER because I thought I saw a cockroach creeping around near my foot. I screamed, and people turned around to find me with my legs entirely in the air. All the while, I was wondering what kind of a weird breed of cockroach this was because it appeared to be silver and kind of shiny. I started imagining that if I were lucky enough to be able to get to work alive and Google “silver cockroach,” I’d discover some kind of crazy, poisonous, bacteria-spreading death insect that everyone but me knew about. Then I looked closer and realized it was just a nickel that had somehow rolled in my direction, so I exhaled – though my relief was severely tainted by the fact that I’m now hallucinating on trains. Check, please.
