It was I who told him, my lean, cat-loving paramour, in a sarcastic British accent, “Darling, I love you like a big, bloody steak.”

Everyone is thirsting for the end of this wrecked year, calling for 2016 to stop stealing our beloved idols, our national dignity, our sense of security, our sense of trust; we are pushing hungrily toward the blank slate of 2017, its blinding, beautiful unknowability a tall drink of ignorant bliss in this beneficence desert we’ve been living in. 

My despair at the election results has as much to do with this impediment to women as it does with the man who, according to the Electoral College, won.

Alcohol is embedded in my life like an intrepid journalist is embedded with a battle-weary platoon. No wonder I fell into panicked palpitations when Ten asked me if I wanted to do Sober October with her.

There’s an aphorism that you hear in every advertising agency ever: Good ideas can come from anywhere. I’d like to amend that to: Good ideas can come from anywhere, with the likely exception of enforced group brainstorming sessions—unless of course cocktails are provided at said session, in which case, sure, maybe a good idea might happen, but probably not.

With necessary heartlessness, I sheared him from my life. I scooped him out of my reality and splattered him on the curb. I moved to New York. I have not looked back. 

A staff member was standing at the back of the room holding a sign that read: THIS IS THE END OF THE LINE, like she was a doomsday preacher in this Trader Joe's apocalypse.

You think you're a paragon of intelligence and effectiveness, but actually you're a feckless mess who can barely cross a street without getting hit by a bus.

Welcome to the new dawn of your romantic adventures. Step right up to your opportunity to meet the like-minded, intelligent, and totes fuckable man of your dreams.