Mindy, you are one hot chick! You are a boiling pot of sex! You are hot, hot, HOT! You are sexy, you are beautiful, you are the wind beneath my wings, you're everything I wish I could be, you're a genie in a bottle baby and they've got to rub you the right way honey-It is 11:15 PM, and I am mentally preparing myself for another Saturday night at the bar. It is 3:15 AM, and we are that tacky drunk couple making out at the bar. I gratuitously grab his ass. He does not have a particularly grabbable ass, but I must keep our audience enthralled. This is perfect. He is cute, he speaks English, and he is only in town for the weekend. He satisfies all of my "let's make out at the bar" requirements. We will continue to make out for about 20 minutes and then he will ask to go back to my apartment. I will decide that participating in unprotected, intimate actives with a total stranger is too risky (he might be carrying an STD or another woman might be carrying his child), and therefore refuse with the knowledge that I will still get a free meal. The possibility of a free meal is the reason that I continue to shave my underarms, legs, bikini line, and back. (Alright, I do not really have a hairy back, but let's just say there is a female out there who does, and she happens to be reading this column. I think it would comfort her to know that, I too, have a hairy back. If you are said female, please re-read this column ignoring the parenthetical commentary) Yes, I can still get a free meal. We will continue making out for another 20 minutes, he will ask to go back to my apartment, and I will answer his question with a personal statement: "I'm Hungry." It was a perfect plan, it was a perfect night, and he would be the perfect late night dinner companion. Our lips separated for a moment and I looked into his big, (I don't remember what color) eyes. He took a breath as if to speak. I smiled (waiting for the question and thinking about what restaurants were near). Then he said something so outrageous, so disgusting, and so unforgivable that I almost wet my pants, "I LOVE YOU." I looked behind me to make sure he was not addressing another buxom brunette that he had known for only two hours. No such luck. This drunken dude from Colorado was really talking to me, he was really telling me he was in love, and I was really hungry. He thinks that he is in love with me! I smiled too much, my pseudo-laugh was too convincing, I made too much eye contact, I am a really good kisser. Silly me. I should have realized that the one guy I chose to make out with is the one guy, in all of Manhattan, who has decided to raise his blood alcohol level to such a point that falling in love at a loud, crowded, smelly bar, seems like a good idea. Maybe he is extremely religious, he cannot have sex without love, and he is trying to manipulate the system. Actually, I should have seen this coming. I have very healthy hair, AND I am a high school graduate, so falling in love with me is standard procedure.I took my time wiping the remains of his saliva off my upper lip. Suddenly it was as if we were the only two people in the building. I did not notice the three girls dancing on the bar to Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me," the large man in the leather jacket making obscene gestures at us from across the room, or the couple who passed by with matching strawberry shortcake tattoos. That's a lie. I did notice the couple, and I was about to chase after them for information on the artist when I remembered the task at hand. I must let him down gently. I must say something that will subtly change the subject and simultaneously make him lose interest. I must say something effective, intelligent, and thoughtful. My upper lip was dry, and it was now or never. I opened my mouth and out came the three words that every man longs to hear, "I'M VERY FERTILE!" Was this true? I have no idea. Was it the right thing to say? Yes. Why? Because the split second after his brain realized the word fertile meant I was capable of reproduction, he looked at me as if I were the living incarnation of the SARS virus ready to jump inside his respiratory system. I was ecstatic with my new line. "I'm very fertile." I practiced saying it over and over again, varying my inflection, on the cab ride home. From now on, rain or shine, drunk or sober, this would be my new verbal Mace. I would be known as "Mindy, that single, fertile girl that sends men running." Now, as I sit in my apartment, ovulating, and consuming the Indian food I picked up on my way back from the bar, I realize the error of my ways. Suddenly, "Mindy, that single, fertile girl that sends men running" does not seem like such a fantastic identity. What if I actually meet a man that I do not want to send running? Do I really want the sound of my name to trigger images of a growing womb? Why did I say I was fertile? Am I obsessed with having babies? What if Colorado-dude was the man who was supposed to father my children and I irrationally drove him away? I felt energized and full from the curry chicken, yet sad and empty thinking about my lonely, unfertilized egg. I heard my fallopian tubes cry out in anger, "Mindy, what do you think you're doing? You've sent another interested man out into the world to impregnate girls named Candy who feel that the movie Crossroads, with Britney Spears, changed their lives!" I began to feel myself getting older, I started to sweat, I was having hot flashes, and I feared I was prematurely starting menopause. I must go out into the world and procreate before it's too late! I need a plan. I need a man! I am having a quarter-life crisis. I need a giant chocolate chip M&M cookie from the bakery next to my apartment.Now, as I sit in my apartment, still ovulating, and licking my chocolate covered fingers, I begin to fine-tune my plan of action. I will have a back-up friend to act as a husband/sperm donor when I need him. That plan seemed too unoriginal and boring. I will just artificially inseminate myself if I want to have children before a suitable father comes along. That plan seemed too technical and impersonal. Then it hit me, the way a designer handbag falls off the shelf and hits your head when you pull the price tag closer before laughing out loud and exiting the store, I will have a raffle! Yes, a raffle. I will have a pre-menopausal, this is my last egg, raffle. It will be in Central Park. There will be a giant banner that reads, "Mindy's pre-menopausal, this is her last egg, raffle." T-shirts will be sold with my picture on the front and the words "Fertilize This!" on the back. Men will come from across the nation hoping to win a chance at impregnating me. I will stand on a large stage in a white (wedding-like) dress next to a Priest, Rabbi, and Justice of the Peace. The winning number will be called out, and the lucky man will run through the crowd waving his ticket in the air. We will promptly marry and then fornicate right then and there, non-stop, until he knocks me up. Now, as I sit in my apartment, re-heating the leftover Indian food, I realize that I have a long time to wait before the raffle, and I should enjoy every minute. Besides, I am not really ready to have children. Last year I managed to kill the only living thing I have ever been entrusted with and it was a cactus. I have severe indigestion, which means that I have learned a lot this evening. I should never wear a strapless bra if I plan on dancing in public, I should get a tattoo of strawberry shortcake on my left buttock, and, most importantly, I should never let inebriated men fall in love with me when I'm ovulating.