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Someone found this site by searching 'dating assholes'. And I thought I was being so discreet about my sex life! Joke, joke. Out of the however many men I’ve been with, only a few have been assholes. I’m sure any bitches-I’ve-had ratio would work out essentially the same in reverse as calculated by any man of my age and proclivities. So it’s odd my site got found with a phrase like that when I’m sure the internet is littered with sites bitterly decrying whatever asshole whoever is seeing, in plate-throwing, anger-fucking, curse-tossing detail.

I guess I wrote about dating assholes in that thing about how it isn't nice guys who finish last, but unattractive ones. Shall I qualify this once more by saying the concept of 'attractive' is a very flexible, indeed manifold thing? Shall I expand by pointing out just about every man comes off as a bland, generic Mr. Nice Guy until you nail him and he relaxes the public persona he'd assumed to get you to nail him, so after a few fiascos a woman learns to trust her gut feelings, which, while frequently erroneous, make more sense than a man trying to persuade you to nail him? Is it clear how little that’s saying?

Did you know, for example, that for some of us the physical sensation of romantic attraction (as distinguished from emotional or sexual attraction - think about it - no time to explain, and into the rhetorical questions right now) is essentially indistinguishable from how our tummies feel when we drink too much coffee without having breakfast, minus the shits? So indistinguishable, in fact, that there have been mornings I actually believed that I had fallen madly in love only to eat a bagel and come to my senses?

Does this look like a series of excuses for all the things that I've done?

Maybe it is. I doubt it, because I only have a few regrets – though you wouldn’t know it if you’d talked to me when love-things were bad. When things are bad, you want to work it out and that takes words, and when things are good, either you’re too busy enjoying the goodness to go on about it, or people mock you and get bitterly jealous if you do. It’s like finding three million dollars in small unmarked bills in the box spring of a guest bed that you bought at Goodwill. When the cash is in hand only an idiot would talk about it, but once it's stashed up your nose or in an Austrian bank account it makes a great fucking story. You know?

I finished reading The Game and I officially don't reccommend it. My own fault for reading the biographies of the authors, perhaps, but the mirror-facing-mirror thing - which A.S. Byatt brought up more than once in the second half of the book - started to feel more like an exercise in emotional exorcism than literature. As though the author was racing to get a book done encapsulating the situation and the personalities; framing them herself before her sister could. I think I need some Mark Bowden now to get all the girly angst out of my mouth. Black Hawk Down and Killing Pablo were both so good.