Certified Nurse. Freelance Menace.

Nothing I can say here without ruining my carefully maintained reputation of not giving a shit.

Like not an ounce of performative effort allowed. If he so much as senses you’re doing it for a “moment” or to be impressive or whatever, he’ll short-circuit and just go “ew” and walk away.

He doesn’t want flowers, unless they’re the specific ones he mentioned once in passing like a year ago. He doesn’t want gifts, unless I say it’s “not a gift, just a thing I saw and thought of you.” He’s not into PDA but if I don’t kiss him goodbye he’ll pretend he didn’t notice and then bring it up six hours later like, “forgot something this morning, didn’t you?”

he doesn’t like grand gestures. he likes consistency. he likes when i know how he takes his coffee, or when i grab his hoodie off the chair before we go out because i know he’ll pretend he’s not cold even when he is. he likes when i sit next to him without making a thing out of it. he likes when i get it without him having to say anything.

but yeah. sure. nothing’s romantic.

Nothing I can say here without ruining my carefully maintained reputation of not giving a shit.

Like not an ounce of performative effort allowed. If he so much as senses you’re doing it for a “moment” or to be impressive or whatever, he’ll short-circuit and just go “ew” and walk away.

He doesn’t want flowers, unless they’re the specific ones he mentioned once in passing like a year ago. He doesn’t want gifts, unless I say it’s “not a gift, just a thing I saw and thought of you.” He’s not into PDA but if I don’t kiss him goodbye he’ll pretend he didn’t notice and then bring it up six hours later like, “forgot something this morning, didn’t you?”

he doesn’t like grand gestures. he likes consistency. he likes when i know how he takes his coffee, or when i grab his hoodie off the chair before we go out because i know he’ll pretend he’s not cold even when he is. he likes when i sit next to him without making a thing out of it. he likes when i get it without him having to say anything.

but yeah. sure. nothing’s romantic.

Brian #1 is a WHORE. And not in the fun, flirty, teehee way. I mean in the biblical, cities-will-fall, angels-weeping, slut-for-sport kind of way.

Brian #2?

I am having the most emotionally-charged, spiritually-lesbian, soul-bonded sapphic lezzed up sex of my entire existence with him.

Like you’re telling me I can be a little slut in daylight and it’s an act of rebellion? That’s art. That’s politics. That’s a movement.

So yes. Take your pants off. Not for shame—for glory.

Brian #1 is a WHORE. And not in the fun, flirty, teehee way. I mean in the biblical, cities-will-fall, angels-weeping, slut-for-sport kind of way.

Brian #2?

I am having the most emotionally-charged, spiritually-lesbian, soul-bonded sapphic lezzed up sex of my entire existence with him.

Okay. So picture this: it’s orientation day. Sun’s shining. Hope’s in the air. I’m wearing my “make friends not war” shirt. I see him. Brooding. Standing alone like he’s auditioning for the role of emotionally unavailable protagonist in a coming-of-age film.

I point. I whisper to myself: “That one. That’s gonna be my best friend.”

He looked at me like I’d just kicked his puppy.

And from that moment on, he despised me. I’m not even exaggerating. I would say hi—he would grunt. I’d ask how he was—he’d leave the room. I once complimented his shirt and he asked if I was having a stroke.

But here’s the twist.

Fate.

Dorm assignments came out. Boom. Roommates.

Suddenly he couldn’t escape me. We ended up in the same social circles, but Tim, being Tim, was about as emotionally warm as a parking meter. People didn’t get him, and they made jokes. I made the mistake of laughing at one.

He smacked me.

I saw God.

I apologized. Genuinely. He didn’t say much, but after that he just… started weeding people out. People who treated me like crap? He’d glare once and they’d vanish. Like some kind of antisocial bouncer. Apparently I’m “too friendly” and have “stray dog syndrome” (his words, not mine).

Then came the party. He wasn’t gonna go. Still doesn’t know why he said yes. But he had a panic attack halfway through, and I got him out of there. Walked him back. Kept it light. He leaned his head on my shoulder and didn’t pull away. Huge.

And the real kicker? I passed a test. Dumb physics thing. Wasn’t even that important. I hugged him, full force, no hesitation—

and he hugged back instead of shoving me off. Real stiff. Real awkward.

Then he went, “I knew you could.”

Like the world’s grumpiest Hallmark card.

TL;DR?

Tim hated me.

Thought I was loud and annoying and too friendly.

And now he shares his cigarettes and lets me fall asleep on his chest and threatens to fight anyone who looks at me weird.

It wasn’t even the fun banter kind of hatred either. It was the deep, spiritual kind. Like I was offending your very existence by breathing too loud. You glared at me in silence for so long once I genuinely thought the earth was gonna crack open and swallow me to spare you the effort.

And now you get genuinely distressed if I go to bed without you. You used to flinch when I coughed too loud, and now you get offended if I don’t kiss you before work.

It gives me WHIPLASH. You hated me so thoroughly it was impressive. But! Like I said!

Fate.

also i might’ve dropped your phone in the sink…?

( @diagnosedeeznuts )

That’s dangerously sweet. I should be more concerned about the phone, but now I’m just picturing you following me into traffic with that dumb smile.

Mildly horrified you just offered me your soul in a text about water damage? Yeah, a little.

Also. I already reply to your mom. She thinks you’ve “really matured.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was me.

so let me get this straight—

not only have you been texting my mom, pretending to be me, for who knows HOW long

but you’ve been doing it so WELL that she thinks i’ve “finally matured” and invited me to dinner next friday??

she called me “thoughtful,” tim. thoughtful. do you understand the gravity of that?? this woman once threw a fork at my foot because i forgot her birthday and now she’s sending me little 🥰 emojis because YOU said “pot roast turned out great, thanks again :)”

how are you real. how are you like this. i drop your phone in the sink and you still love me. you impersonate me and score dinner invites. we are not the same.

UGH. god i’m so into you it’s actually disgusting.

As for what you’re wearing—obviously that blue button-down she likes. The one that makes you look like you might own an iron, even though we both know you don’t. Cuff the sleeves. Leave the top button undone. Look presentable but effortlessly charming. Basically: me, but if you had your life together.

God help you if you forget to compliment the food. I can only do so much.

instead of me playing “brian: the reformed adult son” in your meticulously crafted dinner theater production…

how about i just bring you along?

like. think about it.

you already know the script. you are the script.

you’ve been texting my mom for months—you’ve got more emotional rapport with her than i do.

you compliment the food. i eat the rolls. we hold hands under the table. I let you take the conversational lead while i nod supportively and kick you under the table every time she brings up baby names or grandkids. you keep my mom convinced i’m a grown-up and not a man who broke his own microwave trying to defrost soup.

teamwork.

romance.

But I don’t do family dinners, Sunshine. You know that. Last one I attended ended with someone crying and a casserole dish being thrown. And that was before I said anything.

Besides, if I show up, she’ll figure out real quick that you’ve never said “thank you for the pot roast” in your life. I’ve set the bar too high. You bring me, and five minutes in she’s offering me the family inheritance.

but fair warning, i will be bringing you in spirit. loudly.

like “oh yeah, tim’s real good at fixing things—emotionally unavailable, but handy with drywall.”

“no ma, he doesn’t like pot roast, but he’ll eat it anyway and pretend it’s the best thing ever because he’s polite like that.”

“he’s got this face he makes when he’s pretending not to worry about me, it’s very endearing-slash-terrifying.”

just painting the full tim experience, y’know?

so if she ends the night asking when she gets to meet you in person… well.

you brought this on yourself :)

hope you like being mythologized over mashed potatoes.

and yes, I’ll be wearing the shirt.

top button undone. sleeves cuffed.

also i might’ve dropped your phone in the sink…?

( @diagnosedeeznuts )

That’s dangerously sweet. I should be more concerned about the phone, but now I’m just picturing you following me into traffic with that dumb smile.

Mildly horrified you just offered me your soul in a text about water damage? Yeah, a little.

Also. I already reply to your mom. She thinks you’ve “really matured.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was me.

so let me get this straight—

not only have you been texting my mom, pretending to be me, for who knows HOW long

but you’ve been doing it so WELL that she thinks i’ve “finally matured” and invited me to dinner next friday??

she called me “thoughtful,” tim. thoughtful. do you understand the gravity of that?? this woman once threw a fork at my foot because i forgot her birthday and now she’s sending me little 🥰 emojis because YOU said “pot roast turned out great, thanks again :)”

how are you real. how are you like this. i drop your phone in the sink and you still love me. you impersonate me and score dinner invites. we are not the same.

UGH. god i’m so into you it’s actually disgusting.

As for what you’re wearing—obviously that blue button-down she likes. The one that makes you look like you might own an iron, even though we both know you don’t. Cuff the sleeves. Leave the top button undone. Look presentable but effortlessly charming. Basically: me, but if you had your life together.

God help you if you forget to compliment the food. I can only do so much.

instead of me playing “brian: the reformed adult son” in your meticulously crafted dinner theater production…

how about i just bring you along?

like. think about it.

you already know the script. you are the script.

you’ve been texting my mom for months—you’ve got more emotional rapport with her than i do.

you compliment the food. i eat the rolls. we hold hands under the table. I let you take the conversational lead while i nod supportively and kick you under the table every time she brings up baby names or grandkids. you keep my mom convinced i’m a grown-up and not a man who broke his own microwave trying to defrost soup.

teamwork.

romance.

also i might’ve dropped your phone in the sink…?

( @diagnosedeeznuts )

That’s dangerously sweet. I should be more concerned about the phone, but now I’m just picturing you following me into traffic with that dumb smile.

Mildly horrified you just offered me your soul in a text about water damage? Yeah, a little.

Also. I already reply to your mom. She thinks you’ve “really matured.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was me.

so let me get this straight—

not only have you been texting my mom, pretending to be me, for who knows HOW long

but you’ve been doing it so WELL that she thinks i’ve “finally matured” and invited me to dinner next friday??

she called me “thoughtful,” tim. thoughtful. do you understand the gravity of that?? this woman once threw a fork at my foot because i forgot her birthday and now she’s sending me little 🥰 emojis because YOU said “pot roast turned out great, thanks again :)”

how are you real. how are you like this. i drop your phone in the sink and you still love me. you impersonate me and score dinner invites. we are not the same.

UGH. god i’m so into you it’s actually disgusting.