Are you the most stuck-up bitch on the planet or what? You are making all of us gals look stupid!
Don't hate me 'cause I'm beautiful—you're just cranky because your mama gave you a boy's name.
I'm not absolutely certain, but I think that Paris Hilton is probably more of a stuck-up bitch than I could ever hope to be. Uncorroborated reports also name Catherine Zeta-Jones as a serious contender for the title. So, after taking these factors into consideration, I'm left to conclude that I'm only the third most stuck-up bitch on the planet.
I love you.
Of course you do! After all, what's not to love? I'm stunning, smart, funny, and cooler than a snow cone. So what if I'm a little stuck-up.
I also have a hall of shame of bad dates, one too many drinks at the bar, no-shows, boys who say they will call, and all the in-betweens. I am not disillusioned by this, but I'm ready for some constant kissing and spring lovin'. I'm a kick-ass girl who's on the spring hunt. Can you give me the goods on the Seattle hot spots where I can meet Mr. Right Now?
Being a kick-ass girl in need of some lovin' myself, I feel your pain. Why just a couple weeks ago, I was out enjoying far too many alcoholic beverages with my friend Steve, when we stumbled upon our friend Woody. He's a funny guy, that Woody, but one of his many charms is the fact that he has the hottest roommate in the world. Really. This guy looks like a movie star, is very sweet, but, best of all, doesn't speak English too well. (His first language is French. Curiously, though I don't speak any other languages, I tend to do very well with the ESL boys. Hmm. Deep thought to ponder while admiring my own reflection.)
But still better than all that, the Woodman took the opportunity to inform me that said foxy roommate had been asking about me and had even asked Woody for my phone number! Who cares that he'd never called—sounded like he was going to! I could barely contain my glee! So I had another cocktail.
That's when things get hazy. . . . I remember Foxy Roommate joining us. And, according to my digital camera, anyway, there were photos taken. The next thing I recall is grabbing Steve by the sleeve and dragging him out of the place, hissing, "Woody lied—that guy hates me!"
Now I don't know why I suddenly believed this to be the case, but my guess is that I did something to make him hate me. Perhaps I made an indecent proposal. Or maybe I farted. Really, I have no idea. I've drastically cut down on my food intake recently and have yet to adjust the alcohol levels accordingly. This deadly combo has led to several "incidents" that don't really bear repeating.
But wait—what were we talking about? Oh, right, finding boys to have sex with! Erm, OK, perhaps you should avoid drunkenly drooling all over foreigners in bars. Other than that, as I don't know if you like scrawny, big-nosed dorky types (yum), indie-rock dweebs, suit-wearing financiers, or polar-fleece-sporting outdoorsmen, I can't really give you specific coordinates as to where you might locate your next ex-boyfriend. I've met men any number of places—whilst innocently strolling down the street, toiling away at work, online, at the home of a one-night stand I was having, at a club, through friends—there's no one formula, only luck and timing. The best advice is to keep your eyes peeled at all times, and don't be afraid to smile and say hi. (Not that I ever do this, but I'm stuck-up.) If you're too much of a spaz-attack to eke out a hello, write a missed connection on craigslist.org. I know I check every day to see if anybody noticed me. (Incredibly, no one has. Yet.)
I wish you much luck, my Sister in Celibacy. Here's hoping the spring brings us both many flings.
Lookin' for love? Write Dategirl at firstname.lastname@example.org or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.