Dear Readers,

I’m cranky, broke, and depressed. It’s cold, it’s rainy, and I’ve got nobody to love. As I just fired my beautiful booty-call boy, I don’t even have anyone to roll around naked with! I’ve been writing this column for over two years and have decided that it’s time for you, the reader, to give back. I’ve got a couple questions, and I’ll be expecting some answers!

Please tell me why it is that whenever things don’t work out with a guy (it doesn’t matter who does the dumping), no matter how unpleasant said breakup is, the guy always feels compelled to (a) kiss me goodbye on the mouth, and then (b) immediately add me to his spam list! So I’m not getting laid; I’ve generally got some hurt, or at least sad, feelings about him who went buh-bye; and then I’m forced to sift through forwarded jokes, chain letters, and/or announcements about when his band is playing! Huh? It (almost) goes without saying that I then have to check the recipient list, count the number of women on it, and wonder which of them he’s banging instead of me. This has happened several times, and I don’t get it. Unless you’re writing to tell me that your life is a steaming pile of shit since I left it, I don’t wanna hear it! Why would anyone think otherwise?

OK, here’s another:

A couple weeks back I reluctantly agreed to meet up with this guy I’d met online. I say reluctantly because after countless dates since breaking up with my last real boyfriend in April, I’ve come down with a severe case of Chronic Dating Fatigue Syndrome. (Being a professional, I was able to save on doctor fees by diagnosing this myself.) The only known treatment is celibacy combined with copious amounts of alcohol, but this fella was extremely persistent, seemed nice enough, and agreed to my stipulation that this was not a date. Still, I knew we had nothing in common and predicted disaster. So I did what any girl in my position would do—went out and got liquored up with my friends first.

I arrived a couple (OK, 20) minutes late, looking miles shy of irresistible. I’m not so terribly charming to start with, and a couple cocktails with the ladies made me markedly less so. Mr. Man threw my game immediately by telling me how attractive he found me. (Note to men: “hot,” “beautiful,” and “awesomely baberific” are good; “attractive” is just odd.) Compliments make me wildly uncomfortable, and while staring into my drink, willing it to morph into a much stiffer one, I reminded him (for the 10th time) that this was not a date. He chuckled as though I were kidding (I wasn’t!) and took another sip of wine. Being a beacon of maturity, I decided to gross him out by telling him about a story I was working on, investigating French men who eat used urinal cakes and Germans who bathe in shit (don’t ask). I reckoned this would put him off.

Nope. Just one-half drink into our not-date, Mr. Casanova Wanna-Be took my hand, looked pseudo-soulfully into my eyes, and asked what the chances of him seeing the inside of my apartment that evening were. I snatched my hand back and assured him that was not gonna happen.

My question is not what made him so remarkably presumptuous when every single sign he got off me was blinking neon red and marked “stop,” but why didn’t I tell him to piss off? I was sweet even after he helpfully suggested that if I wasn’t up for a relationship, perhaps we might settle for a tawdry affair! Instead of laughing in his face (or slapping it), I politely demurred! I’m usually far from reluctant to enter the Bitch Zone, but I couldn’t bring myself to go there. Why? There was zero chemistry between us, he was blatantly insincere with his flattery, and he had obviously only wanted to meet me because he figured that since I write about sex, I’d be willing to have some with him. The second he finally realized that this wasn’t going to happen, he split. I honestly don’t know why I even said yes to meeting him! When and why did I turn into a pantywaist?

Got answers? Write Dategirl at dategirl@seattleweekly.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.