**Warning: this post contains NSFW language and extreme hilarity**

Hello children. Do you remember that one time I promised you a new blog post every Friday? Do  you remember how it’s now technically Monday and I didn’t post a thing over the weekend? Yeah. Me neither. Let’s move on.

For those of you who religiously read this blog (you know who you are, stand in your truth), you’ll remember last week’s installment of the G.G. Escapades. If you haven’t read it, I highly suggest catching up here. It’ll make this post much more coherent.

In the event that you’re an entirely lazy slab of human-shaped flesh and won’t read last week’s post, here are some pertinent details:

1. I fell in love with a man at a Starbucks on July 7th, 2017
2. I nicknamed him GG (Greek God)
3. I didn’t speak to GG
4. I resolved to return to that same Starbucks every day at the same time until he proposed to me.

So let’s pick up where we left off…

I made that daily pilgrimage to the Gaybucks with a heart chockfull of hope, acid reflux, and a solitary dream: to finally exchange sweet words with GG. Each day came and went without success but ne’er did I waver. I knew he would eventually make his way to the caffeine dispensary and we would be reunited. The marrow of my bones knew GG and I were created before the stars were born, before history came into being.

And reunited we were. On the 6^th day, it happened (it was terribly biblical). I was at the Gaybucks working incredibly hard to look like someone who works incredibly hard when the Greek himself strode into the coffee shop. It was as though our souls had beckoned each other.

He got his usual iced coffee. Heart pounding. He moves toward me. Oh god. He sits. Oh god. He sits right next to me. My whole body seizes. What does this mean? Is that his way of putting the ball in my court? He sits right freakin’ next to me!

 

The following excerpt is the brain explosion that occurred during this encounter. It has been lightly edited for comprehensibility.

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July 13, 2017:

“Oh god Jesus in heaven husband [GG] is here. What do I do?! I’m literally petrified. I’m stuck in a frozen puddle of whatever that shit is that comes out of tree holes. He’s attractive. Think John Cena but not like a giant monster. He’s sitting right next to me. My heart is pounding and I can’t tell if I’m gonna poop or not. I’m pretty sure my nipples are now hard so maybe he’ll come over and talk to me. Oh lord. He’s making a protein shake. That’s legit like the gay mating call. I don’t ever want him to leave. Sir. Sir?! Please don’t leave. Please come talk to me. I’m interesting. I have a blog. I have upwards of 6 readers.

Okay nipples are definitely hard. He’s sitting down at the table next to me. Facing my direction. Patrick, look over there, you piece of human garbage. Just make eye contact again. You basically already eyefucked this guy so you should be okay with doing it again. What do I say? I should say something. Hello? Should I start with hello? That’s what Adele did and look at how successful that bitch is. This man is attractive and my nipples are out ready to cut some glass and I’m typing like a maniac. Christ help me. Jesus take the wheel. I just stretched. Maybe he saw one of my 3 muscles. That’d be cool. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. I might barf. Maybe just shit myself.

He’s on his phone. I just checked my phone to make it seem like I’m someone who has a phone [and who] knows how to use it (I don’t). My nipples are so erect. It’s really graphic. Like I might get kicked out of this Starbucks because of these nipples. Someone is gonna hand me a fur coat any minute. They must think I’m freezing. Okay. Okay. Everyone remain calm. I can’t keep calm. This is the beginning of the rest of my life and this fucker won’t come talk to me and I can’t talk to him. I’m so ridiculous. Just look over and say hi. What’s the worst that could happen? He could pull out a knife and tell me to go rot in hell with my hideous face and then stab me in my fleshy bits with [the] previously mentioned knife. We’re on the cusp of eye contact. I feel it. It’s like that feeling where you know you’re about to vomit and it’s just a matter of time.

He’s got writing on his shirt. Maybe I could say something about his shirt. But it’s wrinkled up in all his muscles. The only time I’ve ever cursed a man [for] having muscles. He’s pretty and he has muscles and he likes coffee. We’re basically soul mates and I can’t fucking talk to him. I can talk to anybody. I talk all day everyday. That’s more or less my living. God up above I just looked at my hand and I’m actually shaking. This is so dumb. I’m a 14-year-old girl with braces. I don’t know why braces [were necessary] but it just seems right. Like the right thing. Like apparently I think people with braces would be nervous to talk to attractive men. That makes no sense. That’s really mean to people with braces.

We looked at each other! It was magic. Oh god. It was good. I just came. Kidding. But my mind came. I had a mindgasm of epic proportions.

Oh fuck there’s someone talking to him. It’s an attractive man. An older gentleman. [They appear to know each other, platonically.] Go away old man. Leave my husband alone. We just mindgasmed together and now we’re covered in our visceral mind juices and you’re ruining everything. Go. Away.

Although I can’t really be mad because I can’t grow some balls and talk to him. Someone should have him. He deserves happiness. They say if you love them you should let them go. Am I already acquiescing my love?! What the actual fuck Patrick! Fight for your man. Did I use the word acquiescing correctly? What does that word mean? My vocabulary sucks. No wonder I’m single. I have a limited vocabulary and the words I do know I can’t usually spell. This one time I tried to spell the word “Mediterranean” on a pizza box with a sharpie and it was basically incomprehensible. [There were i’s where there needn’t be any]

I think the older gentleman is leaving. Go. Away. Your time here is done. No one wants you here old man. Just leave us alone so we can build our lives together. Me and my husband.

Oh god! He’s leaving. My husband is grabbing his things and going but he’s still talking to that old fucker. I have no way in. How do I get everyone to shut up and keep talking. [what?!] I need to converse with that man. Lord god in heaven help me. Send some angels to open this gob of mine and make some sound come out. For the love of all that is good and holy in the world.

He’s gone. He’s left to go work on his body, which is very clearly a wonderland because John Mayer told me so.”

End. Scene.

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So there you have it folks. I’m a certifiable lunatic, not to mention a total scaredy cat. The good news is that we all technically survived a trip through my stream-of-consciousness. Congratulations everybody! Please take a gift bag on your way out.

The other piece of good news is that there is more to the story of G.G. and our love. So stay tuned because the fat lady hasn’t sung yet (she’s warming up with ascending arpeggios).

Meanwhile, here were my postmortem thoughts after the second encounter with the Greek:

July 14, 2017:

“So what’s the lesson in all this shit? I let love and happiness slip through my little sausage fingers yet again! At the very minimum, there should be a few lessons because hello silver lining. Lesson one: be brave. Always. Life is short and shouldn’t be taken too seriously because we all might get hit by a bus tomorrow or whatever. Lesson two: always have a slip of paper with your name and number on it at the ready. The few seconds it took me to write that down last week could have been spent staring at my future children’s father. Lesson three: making your own coffee could save you thousands of dollars over the course of your life. I calculated this all while contemplating my permanent state of single hood.”