You adorable Portland hipster, you: This date was going great until you started TALKING. I nearly spit out my wine when you said that you have never dated a woman with kids before. Really? You have to be at least 38, though no one really knows because you are a habitual liar about your age. You look decent in your custom-made jeans, so I play along. You drone on and on about the things you think I will care about: your shitty, centrally located downtown apartment, the fact that you have never knocked anyone up, how frickin' green you are, how you are choosing not to have children for the environment's sake, and your last trip backpacking through Nepal. I don't care that your jeans are worth more than your car. I earn more than your dad, dumbass. You remember him, don't you? The guy who paid for your worthless English lit degree? I wish he knew that your only use for that pricey waste of an education was to correct a bored first date's pronunciation of "gnocchi." I want to scream, "NO ONE CARES!" but I suffer silently, cursing the lack of quality in anything resembling a Portland male.—Anonymous