A Minion of Satan
I've had it with boys who don't call back, or boys who call back incessantly when I don't want them to. I've had it with waxing my bikini line, "going Dutch," and I've especially had it with my head somehow being mistaken for a steering wheel. I've had it with dating, and the tips that surround the hell that is my life. As of today, I am officially taking myself off the meat market, and off the pages of the Portland Mercury.

But it's not just that--the bad behavior, I mean. I've got something else on my chest. Actually, that something else on my chest is two very bruised and beaten boobies. I just had plastic surgery and my breasts are still, well, under construction. How do you warn a new flame of the impending horror beneath your shirt? At what point do you say, "Excuse me, but I temporarily have frankenboobs." Sure, all the boys are loving it that I'm obviously going braless these days. My nips are so puffed it looks like I'm walking down the street with the female equivalent of one giant, pulsating erection. Did I mention that I can't wear a bra because it's too painful? Embarrassing, yes. Sexy, no.

Now, being as this is my last chance at public forum in the Mercury, perhaps I ought to say a few words. I think I shall. Here's a big Fuck You to some of those I crossed paths with via Dating Tips: Matthew, a hipster shithead who wears his pants too tight; Shawn, the blond John Cusack who keeps his fingernails too long; and one more Fuck You to all of those fans that had the audacity to hunt me down and call my house after midnight asking for dates. Didn't your mother teach you any manners? And finally, a million kisses to those boys that were kind to me, most always wore boxers, and would never put the hot dog in the bun without first using enough, err, mustard: Matthew #2, who wears his pants just the right size; Philip, whom I barely knew, but who was sweet to me and didn't do anything creepy after I drank far too much hard lemonade; and finally a billion, trillion, kuzillion kisses to Assface (you know who you are), for reasons far too numerous to list here, but mainly because of your poise during one very embarrassing scene involving flatulence in the movie Blazing Saddles.

So this it! Goodbye, boys! Goodbye, condoms! Goodbye, awkward silences! Helloooo, dildos!