You Know, You're Real Funny When You're Sober

Two of them have girlfriends. One of them I have never met and may actually be mentally ill because he asked me how small my neck was so he could buy me a sweater. One was too old. Another too young and immature. Then there are those whom I haven't spoken to. They just check me out. You might label them in the following way: White-Trash Construction Worker, Homeless Man, Star Wars Nerd, Santa Claus, Father With Child, and Grandfather With Beer Belly. Really, I should be flattered. At my age, I should be latching onto any male with child-bearing capabilities so I don't rob the cradle. Yet I refuse. I can't seem to shake this tendency to be picky. Some may find it rude, but really, considering what I've been offered, I haven't turned down much. It's not that I'm looking for something in particular, in fact, that changes on a daily basis. Mostly, I prefer someone I'm attracted to, someone who isn't stupid or ignorant, and someone who will challenge me. Yet I seem to face this constant barrage of men who are, to put it bluntly, ugly. If you didn't know me, you would understandably think me a very mean individual. I'm not. I'm just bitter. I suppose all the good men are taken or uninterested. That's fine. I am very optimistic that someday I will meet him at some picturesque cafe in Paris, France, smoking a cigarette and reading Hemingway. Until then, I'm sick of the perverts, the idiots, and the insensitive. All the good men are too good.