I was born a friendless virgin.

During those first months, it was clear that I was depressed. I spent each day at home, lying flat on my back, looking up at the ceiling and thinking, I should really go out and meet people. But I never did. In fact, I don’t think I made a single friend in my first months alive. I was such a loser.

Instead of making connections, I distracted myself with meaningless games. I slept poorly and cried all the time. My life was nothing like “Entourage.” I had trouble meeting women but refused to use Tinder. Looks-wise, I didn’t bring a lot to the table: I had no muscle definition, a chubby face, and a very tiny penis. People would call my naked pictures “cute.”

I’ll never forget the day my mother introduced me to her friend’s daughter, Chelsea. I felt a connection from the moment she peed herself. We had a lot in common—we were both bald and androgynous. Neither of us had teeth. I thought to myself, She might be the one.

Later that night, we were lying side by side on my bed. I wanted to tell her how I felt, but suddenly I was unable to speak, or even to lift my head. My therapist says that’s right—I was literally unable to do those things, and I know what he means: I’m always sabotaging myself.

After Chelsea left, I began worrying that I might be alone forever. Everyone I knew was married—my mom, my dad, and my grandparents. I had started experiencing the pains that came with aging, many of which involved my molars. I felt my mortality. My molar-tality.

It’s difficult to look back on this period of my life. Close family members can recall me babbling incoherently and grasping for things that weren’t in front of me. I caused scenes on buses and in restaurants. One time, I vomited on some guy on an airplane. I was unstable, and a fucking wild card.

That’s when, for reasons unknown to me, things started to turn around. I got some solid meals in me and started to take real walks. I picked up new hobbies, like trying to eat things that weren’t edible, and did away with old hobbies, like ruining my mother’s nipples. Before I knew it, my hair was looking better. Each day, I looked less and less like Drew Carey.

My relationship with my parents began to improve. We went out to dinner more often. I stopped calling at four in the morning in tearful stupors. I was becoming more self-sufficient. I started to think about moving out.

Then, Chelsea reëntered my life. We had come a long way since we had last seen each other; I wondered if she would still recognize me. We decided to sit upright this time, still on my bed. She was as beautiful as the day we met. At first, things were awkward, and there was a lot of mumbling and staring off into the distance. I was beginning to think that the magic was gone, but then, as if on cue, she peed herself in the most spectacular fashion. In that instant, I knew that she remembered me.

We spent the whole afternoon talking about nothing. Before I knew it, it had gotten extremely late—six o’clock, to be exact. As she dragged herself into a standing position, she spoke four words that I will remember for the rest of my life, words that made me know that I would one day marry this woman: “DUH-FISH DUH-DUH.” She screeched it at the top of her lungs, her eyes radiating fiery passion. What an angel, I thought to myself. She might as well have said “I do,” or “I’ll wait for you, former Drew Carey.” I stood watching as Chelsea stumbled out my front door and into the February air.

I’ll wait for you, too, my queen.

Photograph by Jessica Peterson.