As I sit here in my overpriced apartment on my laptop, I wrinkle my nose thinking of a story for this week's article. I get up, adjust my nameplate necklace, and in my ruffled panties and oversized sweater, start to pace. Love. L, o, l, o, l, o, l, o, v, e. All you need is love, but... where is the love? It seems like the seasons of love have passed by and I'm all out of love. I sit down at my desk again and let out a sigh, recounting the numerous romantic trysts I've had and the number of HIV tests I'm going to need.
Why is it that when love knocks on the front door, boyfriends always enter from behind? When love is done with you, it treats you like a common 19th century French whore, leaving you with a slap across the face and a case of chlamydia. So why is it that as young-ish, professional women who have wardrobes far out of our price range, we settle for those poor bastards who get up in the middle of the night and drink milk from the carton and eat bread without tying the twist-tie, leaving it stale, so you to have to go back to Dean and Deluca and buy a loaf for $8.50? And if you dump their deadbeat asses, then why do our love lives continue in a vicious cycle like my spinning class instructor's cute thighs?
And that's when you realize that men are like those low fat, whole wheat, high fiber blueberry muffins from Starbucks: all the good ones are either gay or sold. So, I guess I have to settle on the medium fat, partial grain, white flour banana nut muffin. Standing outside the Starbucks on my Swarovski encrusted Treo, I have an epiphany: I've had an issue with bananas. not nuts.
