This is my 100th Dateland column. And, once again you have let me down.
When I awoke this morning, I raced to my window, expecting to see all my readers gathered on the sidewalk below, serenading me with a patter song about my winning qualities, tossing orange blossoms hither and yon, and tying up traffic with a Jennifer Appreciation Parade
But, instead, all I was greeted with was the sight of a lonely plastic bag blowing down the filthy, deserted street.
So, after I finish writing this, my 100th column, I will spend the evening alone in a darkened room, drinking rubbing alcohol straight from the bottle and fine-tuning my enemies list. I will dribble on myself and mutter pithy comments like 'Will I never be appreciated in my lifetime?' and 'Why don't my readers love me? Why?'
Readers, I have made a hefty emotional investment in my relationship with you, and I have gotten so very little in return. A few of you have sent me nice emails. But I don't want your compliments. I want your air miles. ( You can easily transfer them into my American Airlines account online. Make an effort, for christsakes! ) Several of my more enthusiastic readers have offered to wash out my lingerie, wax my legs, and spank me. But, readers, where are the big ticket items? The swag? The ingots of gold?
Readers, I could go on and on about how deeply disappointed I am in you, but I will leave such talk to your mothers. After all, I have a 100th column to write!
Now, readers, you may be asking me what I have learned about the lesbian dating world in the past 100 columns. The answer, dear readers, is absolutely nothing. If I had, do you think this column would still be called Dateland? No, if I qualified as a highly evolved creature who is capable of learning from her mistakes, this column would have long ago changed its name to 'Relationship-land,' or 'Celibacy-land' or 'I-Swear-To-God-I'll-Never-Drink-Another-Margarita-As-Long-As-I-Live-Land.'
So, readers, what does this mean for you? Well, just more of the same, I'm afraid.
For example, just this week I entertained myself by developing a crush on a woman I met at a party. She's not really my type ( she looks like one of the lesser beasts in Greek mythology ) , but she expressed a mild romantic interest in me, which seems to be only quality I look for in a woman these days. Anyway, after a brief phone conversation, in which she admitted to never showering without socks on because she claims that they balance her electromagnetic field ( whatever the hell that is ) , I trotted to my co-worker Robert's office to get his take on the conversation.
'I think she may be crazy,' I told him, twittering with excitement. 'But a little insanity often proves to be a bonus in the boudoir.'
'I have known you for ten years and every relationship you've ever had has started out with you suggesting that the woman you're interested in might be insane,' Robert said wearily. 'And, then, it always turns out that she really is crazy. And not in a good way. When will you ever learn?'
The answer, dear readers, is never!
On publication of the 200th column of my same old drivel, please hire a marching band. Or remember me in your will, or get me a gift certificate to Saks. Something! Anything!
And, hey, I'm running out of column ideas. So, if you'd like me to write about one of your particularly humiliating dating experiences, send only gory details to firstname.lastname@example.org .