Of course, I’d like to think that I simply had no choice but to martyr our friendship to make this discovery, but I know that’s not true. The sad lesson here, children, if you haven’t yet written me off as a complete sociopath, is that falling in love with your straight best friend is perhaps the worst, most self-destructive idea you could possibly have, because not only will they never love you back in the same way you love them, they’ll serve as a constant reminder that you are putting off the thing you should’ve done years ago but cannot escape. And the only thing worse than your straight best friend not loving you back is spending three years chasing after his affection when you know full well it will never happen.

I spent the rest of my senior year of college going to gay bars in Boystown and drinking pitchers of hard pink lemonade out of straws bent to look like giant dicks. I talked to boys and traded numbers and did all the things that grown gay people are supposed to do. (Buy meth.) After college, I moved to New York, the gayest city in the world, and the first place I’d go where nobody knew any version of me besides the one that was perfectly, openly gay.

I have yet to terrorize a boy quite like I terrorized Kellan (and, if he happens to be reading this, I should say, I’m sorry for, ya know . . . basically everything). But the sappy part of me would like to believe that crazy, closeted Matt is gone, and in his place is someone far happier.

And far less likely to hide in your closet.

ON RELATIONSHIPS, OR TRAITS FOR MY IDEAL MAN