SGM Seeks LTR in NYC: Web-Slingin’ with Spider-Man

Insurance Lady: So that will take a minimum of six to eight weeks.

JT: So a minimum of six weeks. Got it.

IL: No, a minimum of six to EIGHT weeks.

JT: Uh … huh. I mean, uh … could it take more than eight weeks?

IL: Uh, yeah. That’s just the minimum.

JT: (sighs) But that … okay, that doesn’t make sense. See, I’m not trying to be difficult, but if it can’t happen sooner than six weeks, then six weeks is the minimum. Do you mean it takes on AVERAGE six to eight weeks?

IL: No, I mean the MINIMUM is six to eight weeks.

JT: Right, I get that that’s what you’re saying. I’m just pointing out a minimum isn’t a range, it’s the lowest number possible.

IL: Sir, the minimum is six to eight weeks. How hard is that to understand? (Mutters under breath) You dumb ass…

JT: Sorry, what?

IL: Six to eight weeks. Minimum.

(Click.)


Also, feel free to tell your mom I said hi. She’ll remember me, because
I f**ked her last night. Yeah. F**ked her HARD.

It’s … how do I put this?

It’s just been that kind of week.

After the feeding orgy of Thanksgiving, everyone seems to be getting a tad snippy as the holidays approach. Even your friendly neighborhood SGM, who figured it would be a worthwhile endeavor to argue basic math principles with someone who’s paid minimum wage to follow a script while sitting in a cubicle all day, is finding his temper a tad short.

In my defense, though, she was a total bitch. And I’m pretty sure she was nowhere near my mom last night.

It’s been a while since we all caught up, so let me bring you up to speed. I’ve gone out with Spider-man a few more times, and these dates have been way different than the usual ones I go on — which is to say basically they don’t end up with me waking up on a city bus in New Jersey covered in shame and drenched in my own sick.

Look, I’m a drinker. I like-y the alcohol. I don’t drink to excess, but chilling at a watering hole is my go-to unwinding activity of a social nature. And New York is a great place to drink socially, because for the most part none of us are getting behind the wheel. So I say tip it!

But it turns out Spider-man isn’t much of a drinker. At first, I actually thought this might be a dealbreaker, like finding out he was secretly Mormon or a Republican, because it’s, well, something I do a lot. He enjoys a cocktail every now and then, but for the most part his idea of dates are healthy, vim-and-vigor type physical outings.

Now, in a way, I’m loving that about him. Thanks to our recent  excursions I feel healthy and strong, and I enjoy the feeling I get from a fresh of pack of endorphins — a feeling rivaled only by the one I get when I see Kurt and Blaine kiss.


Oh, man, do it again! Do it again!!

But, dudes, I’m getting tired. Spider-man never stops moving! And frankly, all this fresh air is starting to give me a headache. And I need a drink.

I really have no one but myself to blame. When we made our first date, we settled on what was the usual first-date-in-a-big-city plan, which was meeting for a noncommittal drink or two in a bar, not too late in the evening. This is done, for those of you out of the dating game, so that if the person’s awful, you can get out quick. This escape plan is also there in case it’s clear that they’re a serial killer.

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