I need you to know I was out there this week, trying.
Monday: I went to a trivia fundraiser in Brooklyn. Everyone there is better than I am. Except at trivia. But I need to be open to new worlds. I raised $1,000 for charity and won VIP tickets to The Daily Show. I met no one.
Tuesday: I speed dated. I was the most popular girl at a game of musical chairs. This is not an accomplishment. I can talk to anyone for three minutes. There was one guy I could get naked for in three minutes. He was Israeli, only here for a week, didn’t really understand how speed dating worked. He was 30. Dimples. Green eyes.
Wednesday: I was supposed to log on to the speed-dating site to see who wanted me, but couldn’t make myself. Instead I pouted about the wormhole of repetitive conversations: “Gold is a universal currency, everyone should have a few gold coins at home.” “I wanted to be an astronaut, but now I just program robots.”
Thursday: All online dating sites, all night long. Lots of guys in India were asking me out. I’m in New York.
Friday: My editor, concerned that I wasn’t leaving the house, invited me to crash the financial journalists’ ball. I went because there would be people there. I need new people. My editor turned his phone off, and I never found him. I got stood up by my boss.
This is what romantic hope looks like: Maybe next week will suck less?