Spring is moving right along, folks, and before you know it, it’ll be summer.



I have mixed feelings about summer. The long days and balmy weather make me even more restless than I normally am (which is very), and, as warm weather creeps in, I’m also reminded in that anniversary-sort-of-way, of last year’s hellishly hot no-air-conditioning-in-my-car-summer, when I was D-U-M-P-E-D. When my world split in two, my heart broke, and the sun baked it into to a dried-up husk. (Melancholy music starts here, with bad, pre-coffee metaphor).



If I were merrily ensconced in another relationship, as Loseur appears to be, with my doppelganger Loserette, maybe I’d feel better about the change of seasons.



I’d have someone to accompany me on my manic adventures. Someone to picnic with on the shores of Lake Washington as the warm evenings stretch on and the sun refuses to go down. Someone to make me forget I’m growing older and scared of spending the rest of my sunny days alone (Melancholy music swells to climax and then fades. Cut.).



One thing is for sure, though. My next b*yfriend, should I ever have one, is not going to be "Bryan," one of the faceless millions out there in InternetLand, who took the time to write me this sweet e-mail the other day:



Anyway, I found you (sic) comments about some of the dating you were doing to be very honest and insightful. However, I am thankful that I am not dating someone as shallow as you. I hope that is just he way you come off in you (sic) writing and that you can see these guys for who they really are and not just what you can get out of them.



Just for the record "Bryan," I'm really upset that you don't want to date me, but with a little help from my friends, I might just get through this pain. Sniff.



But, and you all know I’ve been worrying about this, "Bryan" points out that at times, or to certain people, I come across as “shallow.” You, my dear, readers, have defended me from such accusations before, and for that I heart you. And I’m not taking the complaints of our "special" friend too seriously.



But I do know that sometimes I come across like a heartless opportunist. Different boys cycle endlessly through the blog. One boy is here for a couple months, and then I drop him with a few parting shots and move on to the next five guys. Or so it seems.



I’ll just say this: it’s a control thing. This blog is where I call the shots, where I rewrite history. In real life, I often feel at the mercy of men. Like I offer them my heart on a pretty Ikea platter and they say no thanks, can I have a Bud instead?



And so, how do I get my revenge? Here. By making myself the heroine, the one in charge, the one who says, See you later, alligator. If I seem shallow to the “Bryans” of the world, that’s just one of the downfalls of my job. And besides, he probably just wants to date me.



In other news, had a rollicking time cooking dinner for Cute Train Boy last night, who is 6’2 with little Abe Lincoln beard. But. This is our fourth date and I have yet to see the money. Chaste little goodnight kisses, that’s all I get.



I made him Fettucine Alfredo, for crying out loud, and I looked hot. Perhaps he is shy. Or perhaps he moves slow. Or perhaps he doesn’t like me. Or perhaps he’s not a man. I DON’T KNOW and I DON’T CARE. One more date and that’s IT. If he doesn’t put out, I am SO out of there. Can’t he hear that clock ticking?



TICK. TICK. TICK!