20. That's the number of men I've dated in the past year. Each suitor was tried, tested, and rendered unsuitable.
California, my latest conquest, showed so much promise. Handsome, charming, and ridiculously successful; I thought that I had finally found "the one."
We went out on 1 real date and hung out at a few parties together, and I quickly realized that he was a total player. I immediately became detached and did something that I've never done before. I charmed him, bedded him, and then left him.
All these unsucessful dating experiences have me thinking that maybe I'm the one whose fucked and not my dates. But, perhaps patience is truly a virtue and I might just get lucky with number 21.
P.S. I really love this fucking coat...
