It's Monday night, and I'm at a bar downtown. This is a celebration. This is a happy time. It is a time to be grateful that I am alive and healthy, grateful for my friends and family, and grateful that my breasts (although getting lower every day) have yet to actually touch my knees. It is my birthday, and therefore it is a time to celebrate my journey out of the womb and into the world! Yet, as I lean on the bar (flirting with a man who I ascertain probably dropped out of elementary school to sell drugs), I realize that this night signifies not one, but two milestones in my brief existence. I am 23 years old, and I have been single for 8395 days.

The first 4000 days were a breeze since I had yet to grow armpit hair let alone crave the constant company of a romantic companion. However, I spent the next 4395 days wondering what went wrong. Why did all my relationships end after 48 hours? Why didn't the topics of my dinner conversations ever go beyond the weather? "Rain is dreary," "Snow is cold," "I like sunshine," and "Hail is dangerous," are among the highlights. Why did men make excuses and say things like, "Mindy, I'm in love with you, but I don't want to date you," or "You're just not the girl I imagined bringing home to meet my parents," or "Let's only have plans when we're intoxicated, that way I'll get to know the real Mindy." And yes, the intoxicated plans were a lot of fun, until one day (when I was sober) I took a long look at him and realized he was quite unfortunate looking. The point being that I believed I solely nurtured my single status. I believed I was fully responsible. AND I'M NOT.

I have MANY people to thank for my typical Saturday nights watching soft porn and/or Golden Girls marathons. Yes, I have many people to thank for the superb and healthy way I know my own body, for the extra time I spend getting to know the voices in my head, and for my yearning to play Red Rover with the every hand-holding couple walking towards me in Times Square.

It is this epiphany that transforms this article from pathetic complaint to passionate tribute.

I write this article in tribute to the boring, the ugly, the perverted, and the light eaters. To the money obsessed, the cheapskates, the mamma's boys, and the mismatched-sockdude. It is a tribute to "Mr. I don't believe in deodorant," and " Sir I've never seen a toothbrush." It is a tribute to the man who spoke only in iambic pentameter, to the handsome fellow who had bad gas when he was aroused, and to every man I've ever met on the subway. Thank you to the hairy back that trapped my jewelry in its terrain, the mouth that openly chewed its food and spilled some out the sides, the finger that went up the nose in public, and the nose that overflowed with hair. Thank you to JDate.com for hooking me up with a man from Manhassett named Mordechi, to my parents for giving me too much self-esteem, and finally to my breasts for attracting the perverts previously mentioned. THANK YOU. Thank you to everyone in my life who has helped me reach my eight thousandth, three hundredth and ninety fifth day- unattached, horny and hungry for cake.