Am I Perfect For Caroline Calloway? Or Is She Perfect For Me?
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If you have 5-10 hours then read this first.
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On Saturday morning, a tweet from my colleague Donald Does sent a tidal wave of emotions directly to my perpetually quarantined heart. I consider Donnie a good friend, and although he’s teased and trolled me in the past, I trusted he wouldn’t turn my stomach into a butterfly sanctuary just for shits and giggles. I believed that this beautiful and mysterious “Caroline Calloway” creature was truly a potential soulmate for me. But little did I know, we were way more alike than I could’ve ever imagined.
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However, the more I learned about her, the less I learned about her. One step forward was two steps back. It was almost like I was trying to walk without kneecaps.
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Searching her name on Twitter and skimming through the seemingly infinite articles about her only made me more curious. How could someone so similar to me also be so confusing? I felt like an anterograde amnesia patient trying to follow the plot of Memento. She was a complete enigma — but that’s what made her so appealing in my eyes. In a way, she was the female version of me. If I spent my childhood and adolescence looking at mirrors instead of world maps and model trains, then I’m confident The Cut exposé on me would be just as long and juicy.
Regardless, our compatibility was palpable. Even before we were published wordsmiths, I was punching Monster-fueled holes in my dorm walls while Caroline was ripping XR-fueled holes in her dorm floors.
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And there’s no denying that we both have controversial pasts with uppers and downers. Hers being adderall and a jealous wet blanket of a sexually frustrated ghostwriter friend named Natalie. Mine being cocaine and the exact same type of NAT (Nick Anthony Turani).
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Aside from that drama, Caroline and I both overcame the obstacle of having our own self-leaked controversial nudes grace the internet.
They called her perfect ass “long” and my little penis “nonexistent.” They harassed us for our “flaws” yet still bombarded us with money. Funny how that works.
I guess this all leads up to a completely serious question, and I ask this without a shred of hyperbole: Has there ever been an internet couple more obvious than us? I don’t consider myself the cherry to Caroline’s sundae by any means, but if her story was a delicious sandwich, then I wanted to be the mayo on top.
In other words, I had to shoot my shot.
And thank gosh I did.
My ongoing fear of eternal loneliness was suddenly assuaged by a compatible caricature of a fellow “narcissistic internet personality” called Caroline Calloway. For the first time in my life I didn’t feel like an unlovable outcast. And in just the span of an hour, her name was on my lips more than André 3000’s.
Caaaroline! dominated my mind like the CIA, and I was too blinded by the prospect of unconditional love to think logically or realistically. Hell, can you blame me?
Every long term relationship consists of compromises, and if I had to pretend to have any semblance of a connection with an extremely popular podcast duo, and she had to pretend to be vaguely interested in half of an extremely unpopular ANUS duo (a semi colon if you will), then so be it. That’s love after all. Integrity Shmegrity.
I don’t tend to elicit that reaction from women but you’re not crazy, Caroline. I promise. You’re just a little…
You heard it from the queen herself. Caroline was just about as good as mine, and I was only one initial reciprocated conversation with Alex Cooper and Sofia Franklyn away from calling her daddy for proposal permission. In my mind, we were two kindred spirits, in the sense that we both live in Manhattan as well as vicariously through our meticulously crafted internet personas. Kind of like West Virginia twins separated at birth but destined to walk the same path, telepathically.
I considered us inseparable lovebirds, in the same vein as two ravenous vultures who both survive on a strict diet of social media hearts and attention. “Getting CC’d” finally felt like less of a professional burden and more of a romantic fantasy. And hell, I’d happily take her surname without even thinking thrice. Besides, Kyle Calloway rolls off the tongue like a Goldberg marble.
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Our passionate bond seemed like it was almost too sweet and vicious, and I could already picture the two of us discussing Lolita in Nolita over frozen cocktails. And maybe once we were nice and buzzed, we’d touch upon the morality of a 28-year-old woman being attracted to a 10-year-old baseball player. Nabokov couldn’t script such a love story.
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I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I just hope I don’t end up getting hurt. Will my schoolboy crush slowly blossom into a fairytale ending? Or will it quickly metastasize into a Shakespearean tragedy? I guess only time will tell. Hell, it always does. But whether this is all a blessing from God or a fault in our stars, at least I can rest easy knowing our hearts are both in the right places.
