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In a daymare, it occurred to me that I have to date again. Not today, but eventually. While religion and politics are decidedly divisive topics, I think we can all wear flowered wreaths on our heads, hold hands with our sisters and brothers and sing out to the world that dating sucks.

And it only gets worse when you get older. Okay, there might be a few people who would disagree with me on that point, but where is a thirty-something to meet someone who wisely knows not to date anyone at work, whose friends are {mostly} married and have families of their own — this is the age, and bars seem like a distant pastime reminding one of what whiskey tastes like backwards?

When I thought about this some more — glutton for punishment here, but my sister’s solution for yesterday’s lonely attack was to fantasize about a future…

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