1. I have less to write about now that I don’t date on a regular basis. What if angst is the only emotional state that allows me to say something the slightest bit meaningful? The dilemma of a minor league sob story. I’m an emotional vampire and my food supply has atrophied.

2. I fall in love with the most inappropriate of men and despite this realization, I keep letting it happen over and over and over again. It may be Oedipal. I may just be romantically retarded.

3. The thought of having an affair with a married man is starting to seem like the logical middle ground between being in a relationship and continuing to enjoy the freedom that being single allows. A miscreant’s happy medium.

4. I wonder who I’d get to sleep with if I was better looking? I wonder who I would have taken a pass on if I had the physical privilege? Perhaps the twitchy ferret guy.

5. I’m terrified the dreams I have about my ex-husband may never cease. If only there was some kind of subconscious pre-nup we could have worked out.

6. I may only have 8-10 good years left with my tits, then it’s all liposuction and leg-men.

7. He had me until renaissance fair. I can only pray he’s a good kisser.

8. If you laugh at my jokes, I’m more likely to go down on you.

9. If I don’t get laid soon, I may have to name my vibrator. The Purple People Eater has a nice ring to it.

10. A guy who once told me he wanted to show me that not all men were assholes, text messaged me the other night to tell me he was in the area and in the mood to fool around. Porky’s pendulem and other lessons in why men are full of shit. B side tracks.

“I can feel it in my bones, I’m gonna spend my whole life alone. It’s fuck and run. Fuck and run. Even when I was seventeen. Fuck and run. Fuck and run. Even when I was twelve.” -Liz Phair