I think what I hate most are the looks. Those sideways, pitying, judgmental looks. Those arrogant looks that scream false sympathy. Sometimes, out at dinner, they won’t even do me the courtesy of whispering. They’ll say in full voice, “So sad” or “It’s a shame, really. Pretty girl like that dining out all alone.” Their assumptions are just too much to take. I wish I could show them. I wish I could scream at them, “I am not alone! I am here with my boyfriend!” But then I remember. I remember that this is what I signed up for when I started dating the Invisible Man. So, I just go back to my lobster bisque and try not to look too pathetic.

On January 1 2003, I made my first and only New Year’s resolution. I resolved that this would be the year that I lost my virginity. It wasn’t an American Pie-esque pact with friends. I didn’t tell anyone or write it down. It was just a solemn vow I whispered to myself. I was seventeen years old and my interactions with girls had been pretty limited. This was largely due to the lifestyle my high school friends and I had fallen into, which was not entirely conducive to sexual conquests. It was more conducive to the life of a eunuch.

I guess you’d call me an Antarctic beauty. The term Antarctic beauty is usually used to describe women who have lived in the Antarctic and return to civilization with an inflated ego and unnatural abundance of self-esteem. Obviously, there are not a lot of women who choose to live in the Antarctic. As a result, the ones that do tend to get a great deal more attention than they may be used to in their non-Antarctic lives. A woman’s popularity, then, is primarily due to the fact that she is not a penguin. The same phenomenon applies to female-attendees of comic book conventions.