Put the kids to bed

Because dating ulcers is about to get slightly X rated. Well as X rated as a half prude Arab girl gets, really. So the other day I was sitting around in a room full of girlfriends, and the witty banter somehow turned to orgasms. And how I was the only girl in the room who had ever actually had one. The excuses seemed to all be variations of the following:
"I've never slept with a guy I was close enough with emotionally to orgasm"
"Boyfriend is great...but he's just not really that experienced"
"I've never actually done anything more than dry hump"

Well my response was simply...Ladies, DIY! God put vibrators and showerheads on this earth for a reason. The resounding response was, "Ivy, you freak, it's weird to masturbate." Oh, right, my bad. It's much more normal to look for sexual pleasure with guys you're not even comfortable enough with to climax, or to have sex 100 times with the same dude without him ever getting you off.

But...that is just the female mentality. Certain things we accept we have to get from a man, such as orgasms, emotions, and validation...but why? We have the same creeped out attitude towards masturbation as we do towards single life. We'd rather be with a man no matter how unsatisfying it is, than have a possibly rewarding experience by ourselves. Maybe actual masturbation is a lost cause for 70% of women, but learning how to emotionally get yourself off might be worth exploring!

Why is it that we look to men, to relationships, for so many of the feelings we could get elsewhere during the dry spell? Fun, sexiness, and validation are all possible without a male partner, but we all seem to ignore this. When we're not with someone, and I mean ANYONE, we feel sad and mopey. But if we can get someone, and I mean once again ANYONE (even the creepy balding guy who hits on you in the elevator of your building, you know who I mean, he smells like Coolwater exploded on him), we feel as though our lives are infinitely better.

Well guess what. If your date is not stimulating (dual meaning fully intended) in the least...what are you really getting out of it? Bored. Unfulfilled. You know what you SHOULD do instead of getting involved with Mr. Filler? Go on Netflix and order yourself a copy of Love, Actually. Then remind yourself that a DVD made you feel more emotions in under two hours than some filler guy ever could. And if you're feeling really adventurous, let your mind wander to the idea of a You, Hugh Grant, Colin Firth three way (British men aren't always so polite).

If you want it done right you gotta do it yourself,

Ivy

I'm boring.

Uhhhh let's see...I made out with someone at a bar on Saturday? He was hot. We had nothing to talk about. This was very typical of me.

I just realized something. There IS a point where the single life can get as boring as repetitive as monogamy. The other side has consistent sex, acceptable affection, and eskimo kisses. Us singles, however, have unpredictable, spicy lives. But...really? I do the same thing every Saturday. How unpredictable and spicy is it then?

I think I might have to start doing lines of coke off of the backs of 13 year old Norwegian hookers (I picked Norwegian hookers because Norway is actually quite well known for keeping their prostitutes clean and STD free. I'd still be a practical and cautious coke addict). But short of hard drugs and paying for snatch, how the hell am I supposed to make my love life exciting again?

This entry was filled with many questions, and not nearly enough answers. Perhaps it is time to focus my energies on Eastern European politics, though you all know my thoughts on Eastern Europe...It's like a genital wart on the continent.

Oh my God someone give me something to blog about,

Ivy

Happy Birthday, Ivy

Remember how God gave me cellulite for my 20th birthday? He gave me gray hair for my 21st. And as I sat there this morning looking in the mirror applying undereye cream, mascara, hairspray, foundation, bronzer, eyeshadow...I thought, WHEW, fucking long beauty routine, and in a few years I'm going to have to add more. Then it dawned on me:

This is as hot as I am ever going to get. There's nothing left to grow into, my breasts won't get bigger until I'm pregnant, and I no longer have acne. From here on out it is slowed metabolism and MORE gray hairs. I sat there for a while kind of depressed that I'm not going to get any hotter, when I started expressing my deep seated and weird fear to my Guy Friend. And Guy Friend replied, "Well, no, you're not going to get any hotter. But you're over your awkward phase, and you're going to stay attractive till your mid-30's"

Well, thanks Guy Friend! You should've said mid-40's, but I'll take mid-30's (besides, by then they'll have invented some sort of super magic botox). I'm over my awkward phase, and things won't start to get (very) saggy for another 14 or 15 years! Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go mack on some hotties...after all, I only have a little over a decade.

Gray hairs look distinguished on some people!

Ivy

The principles of real estate are unfortunately not applicable to men.

I remember several months ago, Ally complained to me that she needed to stop meeting guys at the bar. I tried to explain to her that it was just common practice; people went to the bar to find dates (okay, usually to get laid. But sometimes to find dates!) Yet she persisted...."I want to meet someone, I don't know, at the library!" I believe my exact response was, "That is ridiculous. People do not hit on people at the library. If someone tells you they got hit on at the library, they are lying liars. Besides, it'd be creepy to get hit on at the library."



Thankfully I didn't offer to eat my hat if I was wrong, or I'd have to be shoveling a gray knit cap down my throat right now. Ladies and gentlemen (a shocking number of gentlemen who read this, by the way), I got hit on at the library. While sitting at a computer dilligently facebooking and listening to my ipod, the young man next to me kept looking over. I thought I had something on my face. But when I got up to leave, sure enough he said he thought he knew me from somewhere (he didn't), and then invited me to a party (that didn't exist). He apologized later for the party not existing, via the email address I excitedly gave him, and asked me out for coffee.



Location, location, location...only works if you're looking to invest in some lakeside property. The boy I met at the library, the place women secretly fantasize about meeting potential mates, was a bust. He had poor grammar, used shorthand and smileys, and frequently texts me things like "sup" or "lol". There you have it, people. Someone you meet at the library has the exact same potential for being a dumbass as someone you meet while slamming tequila at the bar, except this time you can't blame beer goggles.



It got me thinking back to the last few guys I've dated, post my swearing off meeting guys while I was drunk. I met one who worked with a friend of mine...flakey jerk. I met one at a model united nations conferences...flakey, perverted jerk. I met one in a political science class...flakey, perverted, kind of psychotic jerk. The track record for my new crop of legitimately acquired mates was actually significantly worse than dudes I had met at bars, or worse yet, house parties. My life is scientific proof that he is not Mr. Right just because he is Mr. Right Place. So the next time you're 7 shots into the night, and find yourself oggling someone...proceed guilt free. People are just as likely to suck if you meet them at the library, and at least they look better when you're drunk!

Hoping to meet her future husband at McFadden's,

Ivy

Is there a function which prevents attractive guys from reading my blog?

So I was at a house party last night, casually sipping on some fine imported beer (fine..slamming Solo cups of Busch Lite), when I began talking to (what I kind of remember was) a pretty cute dude. So we start talking about things we like to do for fun, and since there is actually nothing more to my life than blogging, I was all "I LOVE TO BLOG!!!!!11one!"

So God bless his heart he either was interested in my blogging passion, or at least pretending to be so that I would make out with him a little, but regardless...he asked me to write down my blog. Shit. Fuck. Damn. This thing is more of a love life killer than syphillis; All I do is rant about how terrible men are, and how I want to commit some sort of gendercide on them. Do I really want a cute guy in a tweed blazer knowing that man bashing is what I do for fun on the weekends?

Part of me thinks...damn straight! I have a lot of hot and awesome qualities, and this guy should have a sense of humor about this. The larger part of me was thinking..."Can I just lie and say I blog for hipsterrunoff.com?" Against my better judgement (drunkenly) I wrote down this blog. This very blog. Shit. Fuck. Damn. Cat's out of the bag...I am a psycho chick who will systematically kill off all of your pets if you forget to call one night.

Note the sarcasm, please...I guess my main point/rant is I question the motivation in basically lying about who we are to bag some hotties. Granted it's best not to spill out your darkest secrets about how you wet the bed until earlier that morning, but we go to amazing lengths to hide so many aspects of ourselves. Try not to do that annoying horse laugh. Don't talk about your undying hatred for Nickleback for half an hour straight. Don't tell him you have secret aspirations to be in a Dentyne ice commercial. Don't be too weird or too bland. Do NOT tell him you run a blog dedicated to how much you hate dating.

Don't, don't, don't doesn't leave a lot of room for do (THAT was a clever sentence)...we hold our federal government to a freedom of information, so why not our dating partners? If your entire interaction starts off with less transparency than the CIA, it's not going to be so pretty. So what...I'm a mix of things. I'm funny, intelligent, a good conversationalist...I'm always awkward, neurotic, and have the alcohol tolerance of a ten year old getting over mono. Why conceal the shit, when you can present it in a funny and enlightening manner! And one day, a few months down the line...he will find out that you run an anti dating blog, he will find out that you wrote about him, and he will think it is creepy. Might as well have a good laugh from the start.

What you see is what you get (and I know you're picturing me naked anyways),

Ivy

Everything I need to know about dating I learned in PreSchool...

Alright, let's not kid ourselves.  By "earlier today" Ivy means we've had this conversation virtually everyday for the past 3 years. I complain to her a lot.  In fact, last night my friend/coworker told me that I needed a hobby. I told her I found one. Blogging.

Anyway, I may or may not have said that NO ONE is interested in me (and by may not I mean definitely said), even though several hopefuls clearly are. But like Ivy said, these are not boys that I consider worth more than 20 minutes of my time.  Instead, I'm still obsessing over the boy from two weeks ago (Emotional Whore Boy), who I'm fairly certain is also wasting his time on a girl named Ashley, oddly enough, although she is not Asian.

Now, this problem the Ivy and I (and pretty much every other female on the planet) have is probably the most common dating trap ever.  We long for that which we cannot have. It's like walking down Michigan Avenue without a wallet, but worse.  I'm pretty sure the root of this can be traced back to preschool. Back then, little Bobby would pick on you by calling you names or stealing your lunch box and you HATED him. Then one day, he started stealing another girl's lunch box instead. And lets be honest, her name was probably Ashley.  So what was your next move? Try to get Bobby to go back to giving you all his attention.  Realistically, if you got it back, you became bored and annoyed and wanted him to leave you alone.  But at least you had the satisfaction of knowing that Bobby liked you again and not that stupid Ashley.  

Fast forward to College, and here we are obsessing over winning the affection of a boy who no longer is (or in some cases, never was) interested in us.  Why? Why do we do this to ourselves? Well, I believe it can be explained through something my Uncle once told me about: Little Boys Syndrome or LBS.  LBS is named after the actions of little boys in regards to their toys. Say little Timmy is at home playing with a truck instead of any of the other 15 million toys he has.  Well, God forbid if you walk up and start playing with the GI JOE at the bottom of the toy bin that he probably didn't even know he had, because he will INSTANTLY want it. Why? Because you have it.  Not because he wants to play with the GI JOE, or because he thinks it's cool (It's not. It never was) but he wants it because now that OPTION of playing with the toy is gone. 

When a guy gives you his attention, you're calling the shots.  You have the option to respond, or not respond.  If you leave the guy at the bottom of your toy box of life (that was lame, but I am rushed and can't think of anything better) and that boy stops calling you or texting you, well, then you have nothing.  And what's worse is that you know you COULD still have his attention if you wanted it in the first place.  But now you don't and you want it back.  You don't really want him, you want the IDEA of him (OK. yes, I know. I hate that phrase too, buuuut I think in this case, it's true).  You want his attention and you want the security of having that guy around if and when you need him.

Here's the part where I have my epiphany and realize I've been a horrible person for the last 15 years or so.  It's not fair. Stop pining over the guy that doesn't like you anymore. If you had it and blew it, it's your own fault.  The guy should be allowed to move on and find someone that believes he is worth more than 20 minutes of their time.  You probably don't even really like him. You just like that he called you pretty. And you are pretty.  But you can find someone you actually like to tell you that.

I really don't hate (most) girls named Ashley and realistically, I won't take my own advice,

Ally

Fool me once shame on you; fool me twice and I'll fall in love with you

I was having a conversation with Ally earlier today. She was making that tried and true girl claim, the one that makes every other girl kind of want to slap you in the face- "No guys like me. At all." Well, that's just not true, and I told her as such. She replied, "Okay. I have Fone. And some guy who texts me every other day despite me not answering." My knee jerk reaction was to tell her that since they were technically human beings, she could not say NO ONE liked her. Then I thought to my own situation.

I've been claiming lately that no one wants to date me. But that's not true exactly. What I mean is no one I consider worth more than 20 minutes of my time wants to date me (Ouch! Hey I'm not saying they are worth no one's time.) To tell the truth...this seems to be the case with me a lot. At any given time, I will have 2 or 3 guys I am definitely not swooning over trying to make me...well, swoon over them. But at any given time, I will also have 1 guy who I think the sun rises and sets for who decides that he'd rather date an Asian or a girl named Ashley.

Which is the disease and which is the symptom? Something is going on here. Either a.) I'm psychologically wired to only pine over the men who reject me, or b.) The types of guys I like do not like me (presumably because I do not fit the Asian or Ashley criteria. And fine, maybe a few other reasons). To be perfectly honest, I've been trying to work out a way to analyze this. But I'm really, really not sure which came first, the desire or the rejection. I would hope it's option a, since I can actually make some futile attempts to fix my rejection-obsessed psychology. But it may just as likely be option b...which is something I have no control over.

That's it, kids. There is no enlightening ending to this one.

Clueless for the cure,

Ivy

When did I go from barely legal hot chick to barely hot legal chick?

Well I’m starting to remember why I serial date. After one week, one little tiny week of having no one to hold me or call me pretty, my confidence is shot. I mean I am still having a blast with friends, pouring my heart and soul into academia, and shopping like I’m Paris Hilton (except I’m doing it at Target). And yet while my friends sit there at dinner talking about their boyfriends or potential boyfriends or imaginary boyfriends, I can’t help but feel like the frumpy loser friend.

Now all of my friends think my man fast is hilarious, and all of them are beyond supportive of my endeavor. And they constantly remind me, “You know, you could have a guy right now if you wanted.” But then my mind starts turning…could I? I mean the whole reason I secretly started writing this thing is because lately I seem to have lost my mojo. Back before I turned 20 and got cellulite on my ass (I swear, God gave me cellulite for my 20th birthday), I had a new guy asking me out every week. Now my options were dwindling…and my God, I am only 20.

You’re constantly hearing from people that 30 is the new 20. That women are getting sexier with age, and the line between “young lady” and “middle aged” has been blurred by Botox. But listen…any college lady worth her weight in Busch Lite knows that the phrase, “I’m a junior” is the kiss of death at any party. Whether the guy is a freshman or a senior, it seems that the idea of fresh blood is far more appealing. Now there’s only a two year difference here, so I doubt my looks have severely declined since the age of 18. In fact I find I carry myself better, am more confident and secure in my own body. There is a better explanation for this.

It is probably true that the upstanding gentlemen on frat row single out the freshmen because those girls don’t recognize the effects of GHB right away. But let’s not write this entire phenomenon off as a symptom of douchebaggery. Is there something the wide eyed, tube top clad freshman girls are offering? And I mean besides a lack of discretion in who they fellate.
Well, as usual, I think I may have an answer. And it’s simple. They ain’t bitter yet. By junior year you have been used, you have been hurt, burned, embarrassed, and don’t have the capacity to endure one more walk of shame. But when you’re a freshman, everything is new and exciting, and you really believe that Matt Frat might be your next great love. And there is something not only appealing about that naïve attitude, I will venture to say there is something beautiful about it. The younger you are, the easier it is to love like you’ve never been hurt.

The older you get, the more you fall into patterns. You start feeling like you’ve met the same guy 500 times, and are less inclined to believe that someone can be different. They are guilty until proven innocent, and it takes an unbelievable amount of time and energy and flowers and apologies for a man to convince a wise woman. When you’re younger and untainted, you feel attraction in its purest form. You consider whether or not you’re attracted to the person, if you find them smart and funny and awesome. The older you get, the more variables there are. Are they secretly just like Johnny Exboyfriend? Are they lying to you like all the other men on the planet besides your daddy? Are you yourself even ready to be in a relationship right now?

So yeah, why was I fighting off guys with a stick at the age of 18, and suddenly spend every Friday night with Jose Cuervo at the age of 20? Maybe because at the age of 18 my expectation was simple: To meet someone cute and fun who I could have cute fun with. And now at the age of 20 the expectation is: To meet someone so amazing they can completely restore my lack of faith in mankind caused by the past two years of dating torture. Yeah, those are some big shoes to fill, and maybe it’s no wonder most guys hightail when they figure that out.

I now wonder which attitude is worth it. I suppose I could always reset to my old mindset of just finding some cool guys to have fun with. To keep it light, not get invested, and try not to get too hurt. Or I could wait around for someone willing to take on the tough job of earning my trust, no matter how many spoonfuls of frosting and cries with my mom it means. Is true love, if it exists, worth all the lonely nights?

I could be having lots of hot make outs with lots of hot strangers, and get lots of expensive dinners with lots of guys who want in my pants. Is it fulfilling? No, not really. But is it more fun than sulking alone in your room wearing black stretch pants and a pudding stained shirt? Yes, yes, and God yes. So I suppose that given the choice, I would reinstate my policy of searching for Mr. Right Now. But after all the disappointment and rejection, the question really becomes…Can I ever go back to dating like I haven’t been hurt?

In that awkward age between teen dream and cougar,

Ivy

A public service announcement

In the past year, you can't turn on Lifetime for 5 minutes (not that I do....) without being bombarded with adds urging you to get an HPV vaccination. Something like 105% of people who breathe air are infected, I'm serious, it has made me swear off blowjobs. But did you know there is a more rampant, deadly love related disease out there? If I had more than $2.75 in my wallet, I would purchase hours and hours of Lifetime and Oxygen and even Spike TV airtime warning society about this disease.

You don't even have to have sex to contract it. You can get it just by talking. Lucky for you the illness is confined to a specific breed of men, and I can teach you how to identify them! Oh, emotional whores. They don't sleep around, they emote around. They lie in your bed and hold you while listening to you pour out your feelings on how you wish the Trix Rabbit could get some cereal. They fondle your hopes and aspirations (oddly enough, I named lefty hope and righty aspiration!) And that's just the foreplay. Oh man, by the end of the night they get you so ready to have an emotional climax that you start screaming, "Yes! YES! I DO HAVE DOUBTS ABOUT THE FUTURE!!! Oh God baby, I need a cigarette."

But like regular old whores, emotional whores will also leave you when the sun rises, and usually with some weird sort of (symbolic) rash. But...wait a minute...isn't emotionally connecting GENERALLY a characteristic of sweet, honest guys? YES. I KNOW. Men have become so advanced in their cruelty that they have discovered a way to mimic the exact behavior of Mr. Right and morph into Mr. Right For Tonight. These tells aren't foolproof, but I've been emotionally infected enough to have picked up on some safety tips:

*It may seem like a good thing if there are no awkward pauses. FALSE. That means he is not nervous. If he is not nervous, he is not being sincere. When you meet someone new and amazing, you should be filled with anxiety ...not stringing together pure conversational poetry.

*He makes future plans with you. I know, I know, this seems like a nice gesture...he is outwardly saying he would like to see you in the future. The confusing truth is if he actually wanted to see you in the future, he would be way too apprehensive to straight up ask you right then and there. Also, think about it...if he's making big decisions like "we should go to this expensive restaurant" before you two even know each other that well, he ain't got nothing on the line. He don't really care. Enough slang now.

*He gives you the perfect amount of eye contact, and knows the exact right moment to kiss you. Red lights, come on now, no need for explanation.

*He's very understanding when you don't have sex with him. Too understanding, as in you can't even see a pang of disappointment in his face. I'm not saying the guy needs to be date raping you to be really into you, but if he doesn't care at all that you're not having sex, then he doesn't care at all.

*He says he likes you. He says he wants things to go further, or asks if you want things to go further. If he were into you, he'd have to actually THINK about this for more than a night. Also, he'd be too afraid of rejection to just say it flat out. You could respond, "No I think you're fat and hideous" and trust me...Emo Whore would shrug it off.

I hope my public service announcement was a little useful. Unfortunately you can't just take some penicillan if you happen to have unprotected emoting with a feelings slut. There's only one cure...eat some ice cream, accept that some people are just lying jerks, and continue onward with your quest for the sincere.

Urging you to protect yourself!

Ivy

I'm not sure how it took me this long to figure out...

There is one important dating rule everyone needs to know:

Men Lie.

Always.

And that's not just me being bitter.  I asked a guy friend of mine the other day how to tell if a guy is being sincere. His response: "Don't believe anything a guy tells you until after 6 months of dating."

Off to join a convent,

Ally

From what I've heard, with skin you'll win

With all the outside contributing factors, it is literally amazing that people manage to hook up ever. Logic would have you believing that if you are an attractive and interesting person, you will...well, attract and interest people. But this formula is falible; there are always circumstances beyond your control. These circumstances are usually wearing a low cut blouse.

Oh, the Swooper. The scenario is always the same. Dude approaches you, and begins speaking to you. You and Dude are really hitting it off...he's digging your jokes, seems impressed with your passions, and you caught him checking out your ass when you turned around. Everything is going great! Enter the Swooper. She is usually identifiable by her massive amounts of eyeliner and cleavage that defies gravity, but the more dangerous members of the species blend in seamlessly with the rest of us...they don't even look like man stealing sluts! The Swooper's skill lies in her ability to flirt so incredibly hard with Dude, that any attempts to top her moves would result in you looking like a complete asshole. Some of these moves include:

*Dancing so hard on him, his public boner is completely warranted.
*Super gluing herself to his side all night
*Insinuating (or even flat out saying) that he is going to get some play at the end of the night.
*Acting as though he is the most fascinating man since Andy Warhol
*Physical contact including, but certainly not limited to, playing with hair, hand on leg, public make outs

The Swooper offers Dude the exact two things he craves; Unlimited ego stroking, and the possibility of another kind of stroking. You see, your stories about your brief stint in the philharmonic or that time you won a Nobel Prize can't compete with the fact that he's 98% sure she is going to fellate him. Despair not, in normal settings this is usually not the case...but after some advice from his buddy Jose Cuervo, Dude is going to go for the shameless flirt over your subtly sexy smile any day.

I began to wonder...if the method of The Swooper is infinitely more effective than my method of winning them over through slowly revealing my wit and intellect (then sloppily making out with them in an alleyway...a few hours later, naturally) then why in the hell am I sticking to my shitty method? The only reason I can come up with is I would feel like a total asshole. After the initial 5 minutes of feeling like a fat loser because I just got swooped, I think Miss Swoop looks like a complete tool. The overly loud laugh. Her hands shamelessly wondering. And oh, the juking! I literally could not bring myself to use that method, because it is effective for the wrong reasons. I may be missing out on the validation...but I'd rather find one guy who is not shallow or dumb enough to fall for a Swooper than 50 who are turned on by women dancing on them like they're a stripper pole.

At least Ben and Jerry think I'm pretty,

Ivy

Ask and you shall receive, or, you'll just get damn lucky...

In a funny turn of events, despite my last blog, I now have butterflies again.

fairly smitten,

ally 

Remember when you'd go on a date and feel butterflies? Yea, me either....

To add to Ivy's post, I also have found myself dating just to date recently.  Despite all my friends telling me not to give Mr. Not that Attractive, Mr. Not that Intelligent, Mr. I wear Man Uggs, and Mr. Even less Attractive a chance, I do.  And yes, I do use dumb excuses like, well he's nice, or he plays a sport, or he plays the drums, or he looks like he's a 300 cast member (because really, those are my standards at this point...)

But you want to know the worst part about this.  I am dating (drunkenly hooking up with at bars) with these guys, who my friends warn me about, and somehow, in the end, I get screwed over, and not in the good way.  For some reason, the guys who everyone tells me I'm too [insert compliment-able adjectives here] for, dump me first.

So basically I've found dating to date leads to this: I become interested in someone that I'm really not totally into. I attempt dating someone that I shouldn't bother dating. I get screwed over. And it's by someone I really didn't even like all that much in the first place.

This is not fun.  Dating should not be "go out with the nearest living male because he exists and is there". It needs to be because you actually like him as a person. Not because he plays the drums. Or is pretty. (although I will not judge if you want to have a little fun with those boys)

Wanting to Feel Butterflies Again,

Ally 

And now for a word on "dating just to date"

I have a confession to myself, and to the masses: I have not been dating in about two months now. There has been the odd first date here and there, and a few amusing Stalkers and Booty Callers, but no one who makes my little post-adolescent heart go pitter patter. To reiterate: I have not been dating. So what's the big deal? I'm not dating anyone for the first time in 3 years.

You see, I am guilty of something you probably all are guilty of as well: dating just to date. Finding interesting and sexy people is a lot of freaking work, and it is just the American way to avoid that. In between finding Mr. Right and Mr. Right Junior and Mr. Right III, we feel the need to pass the time with Mr. Not That Attractive, Mr. Not That Nice to Me, and Mr. IQ in the Double Digits. We will date all sorts of people who are blaringly below our standards, then pretend we are being open minded by "giving someone a chance." No. Stop tricking yourself. You will never, ever love someone whose Ipod is overflowing with Nickelback and Nickelback remixes. You are dating because you are afraid not to be.

Well...what's REALLY the point of dating just to date? Newsflash: Dating is hard fucking work. It takes time, energy, and all sorts of minutes on your cell phone plan...not to mention the constant nerves, the agitation, the apprehension of getting to know someone new, Jesus Christ....IT HAD BETTER BE WORTH IT. Dating just to date would be like doing 2 hours of cardio a day just cause I like treadmills: It's sweaty and exhausting, and if it didn't keep me in my skinny jeans, I wouldn't do it.

So I guess I'm not feeling the urge to find me a fixer upper, spend weeks or months trying to fix him up...then discovering there is actually no way to get a frat boy to enjoy James Joyce. I think I have better ways to spend my time and it rhymes with "getting drunk." Don't worry...I will still have plenty of stories.

Flying solo,

Ivy