Single White Nerd: Please Don’t Blog About This
a blogumn by Michael Kass
She sits across from me on the couch, painstakingly curled hair cascading over her shoulders. Her earrings catch the candlelight. They’re shiny. I want to play with them. I like shiny things, especially when I’m a little drunk. Which I am. The empty bottle of wine on the coffee table gives it away. We kiss. Great kiss. Her perfume or soap or something makes me dizzy. This, I think, is a great date, a date by which all other dates shall be measured!
Then she pushes herself away, looks me straight in the eye, and says:
“I think I’m falling in love with you. No. I am. I am falling in love with you.”
I, having well-documented allergies to cats, love and emotion, stiffen. And not in a sexy-time way. She immediately senses my discomfort.
“Oh my God. Please don’t blog about this.”
BAM! Just like that, I have been catapulted from the warm comfort of an awesome third date onto the razor sharp horns of a moral dilemma. She knows about this blog. She’s read every entry. At this point, she probably knows me better than I know myself. And yet under the influence of a couple glasses of wine, she has let loose a volley of words that backs me into a corner forcing me to grapple with decisions far beyond my alcohol-addled capacity.
This girl is genuinely sweet. She’s great. I enjoy spending time with her. Leaving aside for the moment the somewhat awkward fact that she has just used the dreaded “L” word–a premature verbal ejaculation that we can safely attribute to the wine–I would like to continue spending time with her. I hope that some of that time will be spent without the burden of clothing. If I blog about the ridiculousness that has just fallen from her lips, I jeopardize that.
On the other hand, she knows that I write this blog every couple of weeks. She suspects that at least some of what I write is true. She must know that I have a sacred, ethical obligation to accurately chronicle the adventures of a Single White Nerd. That said, I don’t want her to become self-conscious around me, to get enveloped in a shroud of paranoia and self-censorship, always wondering which of her utterances will end up here. I want her to be herself, not some postmodern, meta-woman constantly trying to decode and anticipate the Nerdly Gaze (like the male gaze, with a more neurotic bent) to optimize her blogular portrayal!
Yes, I do sometimes think like that when I’m drunk.
Maybe I should adopt a pseudonym, become an anonymous voyeur into the workings of my own life. But then would I risk becoming self-conscious myself? Always aware of being observed by my slightly dysfunctional, yet ultimately charming alter-ego? Perhaps the solution is to hire another actual person to follow me around to write the blog. Or someone else could write the blog about their life instead of mine. That would solve the whole problem!
Then the strangest thing happens–her shiny earring pops me out of my meltdown. I look into her eyes and have a rare moment of clarity. Normally, I’d say “Of course I won’t,” wait a day or two, passive aggressively break up with her by not calling her back or returning text messages, then write the story tweaking the facts a bit to make her crazy. But in the rare moment of clarity, I realize that I have to tell her the truth: “It’s too good,” I say, “I’m probably going to have to write about this. I mean, come on. If you hadn’t said “don’t blog about this,” I could have maybe kept it all very hush hush. But. . .it’s just too good.”
And now she’ll leave. I would. First I’d probably get a little bit yelly. Talk about how my trust has been violated, privacy, vulnerable moment, blah blah blah. Then I’d I’d slap me. Then I’d leave. As she will. I’m sure of it.
Except that she doesn’t. She just shakes her head a little. “I know. It’s fine. I’m sure it will be great.”
My mouth drops open. I’m sure it’s very attractive. What has just happened? I’ve been honest and she’s still sitting across from me? And holding my hand? What the HELL? This isn’t dramatic or interesting at all. No blood is being spilled. Just two people sitting on a couch looking at each other, talking, expressing mutual interest, and trying to navigate into each other’s lives. Could anything be more boring that that? Ugh.
Jeez. Maybe I won’t blog about this after all.
Don’t miss Michael Kass telling a harrowing tale of a narrow escape from near-certain doom on April 23rd at Wordplay.