This is a somewhat new development, and I'm not sure what I want to do with it. I almost always have to find my own men.
Not that I haven't, on occasion, tempted fate. The few times I've broached the subject with my friends, though, their response has almost always been, "Gosh, I'm not sure I know anyone you would want to go out with."
Like that has anything to do with it.
For the most part, I just go out with anybody who asks. My philosophy has always been--if they aren't all scared of girls and stuff--I'll go. I have even, on occasion, attended to the dating ritual since I've been writing this blog. Relax, already. You haven't heard about it because there was nothing to report except the slow and steady progression of my hymen growing back.
It's probably a better idea to restrict my pontifications regarding men to the glorious (if fictional) Gil Grissom and the elusive (albeit married) Ira Glass. Surely, finding a date is difficult enough without the guy in question worrying about reading Saturday night's details on the World Wide Wonder.
A couple trips to that well, and I'll be lucky to find enough men to carry my eventual coffin down the aisle.
photo, Cris Watk.
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