I don't date. The closest thing I have to a relationship is with my roommates: they always nag me, if I'm out with other people they call and whine about how we're not spending enough time together and in these past few months, the sex has seriously dwindled. The most romantic thing anyone has done for me lately was this past weekend when my roommate Erik paid for the movie we rented at Blockbuster. 86. Is that how many dollars Harsh Times cost to rent? No. Is that how much money I have in my checking account? It might be, but I'm too afraid to look. No, 86 is the number of days since I last had sex. With an ex-boyfriend. And since I've pretty much accepted the almost certainty that Ryan Reynolds is not going to wake up one morning and realize that the love of his life is living in a rundown college house in Cincinnati, Ohio, with the Christmas lights still up because we're too lazy to take them down, this number is only going to continue to grow.
Aw, man. I told myself I wasn't going to talk about my present in this entry, but rather my future. Oh well, now there's nothing left to do but go buy an entire gallon of ice cream, lie in my bed and catch up on the storyline of Days of our Lives all the while promising myself that I won't masturbate again for at least another two hours because lets face it, anything less is just pathetic.