The Different Types of Doomed Crushes There Are
By CJ Hallman
The Same-Sex Crush
As though I don’t have enough problems as it is: My apartment is a mess. My hair has been really dry lately. I can never decide what to be for Halloween and always end up with some horrible, last-minute, ragamuffin costume. What kind of Unfit For Social Interaction mess goes to a party dressed as a Russian Hooker version of Gandhi? SMH. And now you and your good-smelling antiperspirant and amazing taste in gypsy jazz are making me question my sexuality? How considerate of you to pile that doozy on my already-full problem platter.
Let’s just make this easier for us both: Go to Thailand, get a sex change, become attracted to women, dump your boyfriend, and… oh, whoa. Holy crap, your feminine good looks really didn’t translate… just, uh, whoa. Not really my business, but maybe next time you shouldn’t let a twelve-year-old with a photocopied M.D. from “Harvard Univercity” perform the procedure? Maybe you just wound up with an expired batch of hormones and it’ll all sort itself out if you stop taking them? And, really, it’s not that bad — you kind of look like Joan Rivers, but just really hairy. But, hey, um, good luck with your new penis.
The Has-Unforgivably-Weird-Parents Crush
Obviously people don’t always wind up just like their parents. Otherwise, how would we have evolved so far from our ancestors’ heathen ways to develop such civilized concepts as Pick-Up Artistry and Low-Carb Diets? Obviously so not the case.
However, and not to be a buzz-kill or anything, it’s worth noting that God typically sculpts all members of a family from the same muddy shade of Primordial Ooze Genetic Play-Doh. So, yeah, your dad is a cocaine-snorting attorney who spends his free time giving women unsolicited makeover advice and doing pro bono work for rapists? And your mom is a holy roller with a lazy eye whose guest bathroom counter is lined with nine different types of scented soaps, all imprinted with cursive Bible verses? And she forced you and your morbidly-obese, Nascar-and-Nickelback-obsessed sister to participate in child pageants performing sexed-up covers of Donny and Marie tunes? And she responds to everything I say with, “Well… that’s okay,” as though I really need your weirdo mother’s faux-Seal of Approval for having been raised Catholic or for being terrified of clowns? You, sir, seem pretty normal — all things considered, I mean — so please don’t take this personally. It’s just that I may soon be skipping town and enrolling in astronaut training school so that I don’t have to share so much as a planet with your toxic Satan sperm ever again. One small step for (wo)man, one giant leap for (hu)mankind.
The Hollywood-(Not A)-Hunk Crush
The crush itself isn’t the problem. Every hot-blooded person — and from your limited understanding of herpetology, even certain reptiles — will at some point develop a Hollywood crush. The problem is that owning up to your particular attraction would leave you ostracized. Cast from society like a leper with an ironic moustache and a Farmville addiction.
You’re therefore forced to suffer in silence with your lust for Steve Buscemi. You go underground. You watch Ghost World with the volume turned down every night before bed. You develop a solid business relationship with the middle-aged lady from Office Depot (Shout out to Deirdre!) because you’ve purchased dozens of inkjet cartridges to print screenshots from Boardwalk Empire. You tape the print-outs to places that no one will see, such as the inside cover of your diet journal and the underside of your coffee table. You convince yourself that, because it looks eerily similar to Steve Buscemi’s lips, maybe Spam will actually taste awesome. You purchase a Spam can, crack it open, reach in, and shakily lift a chunk to your mouth. You pucker up. Almost like the real deal, right? Fleshy. Salty. And vomit-inducing for anyone who might be so unfortunate to visualize or, lord forbid, witness the unnatural act. Sorry, humanity.
The Out-of-Your-League Crush
Look, Mom, the “most women are probably too intimidated to approach him” thing is a myth, just like Zeus, getting AIDS from toilet seats, and simultaneous orgasms. Beautiful girls literally throw themselves at him all the time. Literally. They, like, jump off trampolines and go hurtling through the air. And he then catches, with unrivaled masculine grace, each of their perfectly tanned/toned gymnast bodies with his arms that are like tree trunks, only made of Kobe Beef. Then while his Fabio locks dance in the breeze like delicious, tender udon noodles, he and his gaggle of ladies leap onto a saddled horse, which gallops off into the watercolor sunset. And etc. I’ve seen it, Mom. Trust me.
And you know all too well that if I tried to jump off a trampoline and into those meat-tree arms, I’d probably just get my finger-like toes caught in the trampoline’s springs and fall backwards and hit my spine on a rock, and then the damn horse would amble over and kick me in the head and I’d wind up with amnesia just like Michelle in that episode of Full House, or paralyzed just like the guy in the handicapped parking signs. Yeah, so thanks a lot, Mom. Great advice. Great. Advice.
The Guy-With-Girlfriend Crush
You strut into the bar, sit down, order a booze… or is the singular form a boo? Anyway, you open the copy of The Weekly World News that you bought on Ebay. You begin reading about how some archeologist in Germany discovered Hitler’s pickled penis in a jar. You’re feeling musical today, and so you begin composing a little ditty in your head: Hitler’s penis in a jar/something something Volkswagen car. You sip from your alcohol. You begin to hum. And then like a gift from the muses of melody, a gentleman approaches. Handsome as heck. And — brace yourself — Hotty Hot Face is also nice, funny, smart, and seems genuinely interested in hearing about how Karl Marx only went on to dream up “Communism” after he was ousted from The Marx Brothers for lacking proper comedic timing. Jackpot.
Then disaster strikes. After an hour of chatting about conspiracies and the time you found a cold metal object in your ear that may have totally been an alien implant or part of a broken earring, your future husband will let slip something like, “Oh yeah, we have a bunch of History Channel UFO shows on DVD at our apartment.” You’ll then ask, in vain, if the bald guy sitting on the other side of him is his roommate, but no. What Baby Boy meant to say is that he and his awesome lady not only live together, eat together, and sleep together, but probably fashion tin foil hats and prepare for the rapidly-approaching End of Days together. Dang. It. All.
You’ll want to make a comment about how guys with girlfriends should be forced to sew a patch on their clothes so that everyone knows they’re taken. But don’t. Then it’d get even more awkward because he’d be all, “What is this, Nazi Germany?” And you’d look like an anti-Semite and have to flee to South America, where you’d be forced to compete for men with the likes of Gisele and Shakira.
Just shake it off. Now is the time to order another Bacardi Breezer and accept the fact that Mr. Hunk’s girlfriend is probably prettier than you, more marriageable, and less likely to spend her days going to bars alone and composing songs about fascist dictators. Also accept that she’s probably an actress, gourmet chef, or published author who in her free time volunteers teaching sustainable farming techniques, or does matchmaking for lovelorn refugees, or something. Beautiful. Your job is hardly noteworthy, and the only volunteer work you’ve ever done is teaching underprivileged children to write so that they can wind up creatively — and sexually — frustrated, unemployable adults who do occasional volunteer work to distract themselves from feeling like their existence is totally worthless, and from the semi-subconscious belief that they don’t deserve to be happy, which drives them to pursue only completely unattainable romantic partners.
So yeah, whatever, see if I care, Guy with Girlfriend. I’ll just continue to write my songs and kiss potted meats and read tabloids and avoid circuses and wear weird Halloween costumes and not deal with any of my inadequacy issues. So there. Take that. Have fun being well-adjusted and in a healthy relationship. And, um, hey, good luck with your penis?