Last summer, not even a week before I met Brian, I went on a date with a peculiar, charming little man named Patrick. I met him online after a six-week fling (also online) had just ended and I was angry at myself for not being able to be completely, 100% myself with men, which led to them not really knowing me, and therefore, as I saw it, unable to see why I am so fantastic and they should want to date me forever.

Patrick was refreshingly real after the six weeks of strange pretense with someone who held back almost as much as I did, but had ten years on me in terms of emotional repression. A Ph.D. student in Clinical Psychology, he was intelligent, articulate, analytical, and of course, nerdy. Whoo boy was he nerdy. And it was great. He told me about a collection of Star Wars figurines that he kept in tupperware containers in his apartment, and I was so moved that I decided it was okay to tell him that I love Hanson. And you know how he reacted? He gave me a high five.

Anyway, I only ever had one date with him, because six days later I met Brian, and Patrick was too busy to get together again in the coming weeks and a month later I was a taken gal. Something about him, though, has been gnawing at me for the past six months, and I just realized what it is.

He is the spitting image of Moby.

Hey. I told you he was nerdy. Whoo boy nerdy.