I’ve never watched Grey’s Anatomy, but I think I get it—there’s some guy called McDreamy and some other guy who’s like, McLovesy or something, and McDoeEyes can’t chose between them. And in between it all there’s McCheatsy, McDies, McLetsJustBeFriends and McDoctor. I mean, that’s close enough right? But here’s the thing—I’m pretty sure there’s no character called McScary (apologies if there is, especially to NY Press, because that makes this entire essay completely redundant).
McScary is, you guessed it, scary. McScary is also rare. From my experience in New York City, people date a lot, and the ratio of McScarys to McMeh?s is grossly disproportionate. We’ve all met McCreep, McNeverCallsAgain, McHuge (work it out), McCriesDuringSex and McBartender (or four). But not many of us have met McScary.
The last time I met McScary wasn’t even in New York City. It was in London. I’d had a rough year blah blah and then one day I met a boy that my heart instantly opened up for. And there is nothing scarier than when your heart starts screaming, “Him, him, Kat, It’s HIM!” Hence the name McScary.
Every second with McScary is the perfect nightmare. It’s like you’re dreaming that you’re eating cheeseburger after cheeseburger [or insert your favorite food here] and it’s so delicious, oil is dribbling down your chin and bits of pickle are stuck to your cheek—but at the same time you’re swelling, getting fatter and more gruesome with every bite. As Beyonce would say, “a beautiful nightmare.” One minute you’re greedily chowing down, the next minute you’re dealing with some severe, long-term health risks.
The time you spend with McScary is like scoffing all those cheeseburgers. The more you eat, the more you want, but the higher the risk of cholesterol, and eventually heart attack, becomes. When I was a younger girl, I used to face McScary with wanton abandon—yeah, I’d pick up like six of those cheeseburgers and stuff them all in my face at once, with no regard for the future pain and possible lockjaw my actions might cause.
And what pain! McScary is scary for the precise reason that he is the one you instinctively know will break your heart. And not break your heart in an argh-screw-that-guy-short-cry-margaritas-and-dancing-with-the-girls-omg-I-totally-like-party-macked-on-two-guys-where’s-my-baggie? sort of heartbreak. I mean real, sordid, you-can-feel-it-smashed-to-pieces-in-your-chest-shards-scraping-against-your-rib-cage-and-puncturing-your-lungs broken.
Most of us have been broken by a McScary at one time or another—that’s how we can identify McScary now. Chances are the first McScary was simply a McDreamy, in the time before you knew what awesome power the person you fall madly in love with can wield. So now that you’ve been brokenhearted, McScary is scarier than ever. And you’ll find yourself asking, as I am asking myself now, what the hell do I do? Based on the reactions of me and my friends, I see that you have three distinct options:
- Self sabotage so McScary leaves you wounded, but not mortally
- Quit being a cry baby and just roll with it
- Play Katy Perry really loud and dance around in your underpants singing into a hairbrush
I’m a hopeless romantic. And I’ve learned that in the self-sabotage scenario, you don’t get second chances. This isn’t a rom com and you’re not Katherine Heigl (sucks to be you). So I say do the Katy Perry thing to calm your nerves, then hitch up your panties and dive in, headlong. Because the thing is, everybody just wants to be loved. Sometimes when I think about how desperate everyone is for such a simple thing, and how hard such a simple thing is to come by, that’s what really breaks my heart (I seriously cried today when I thought about all the people who want nothing more than love but don’t have it).
So if you have the opportunity—take it. Grab McScary by the balls and squeeze them (not too hard, just enough pressure so it’s sexy); let yourself fall in love. If it doesn’t work out, well there’ll be an article for that too, and I promise you, we’ll get through it together. Hurting is OK—you’re allowed to hurt. That’s why God invented things like red wine, best friends and bacon. And besides, no one likes that deer-in-the-headlights whiny bitch off Grey’s Anatomy anyway.
Follow Kat on Twitter: @kat_george
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