I never know what to write here. One of the things I'm suppose to write about it what I'm looking for. I'm supposed to describe my ideal woman. So far I've narrowed it down to somebody with hair of some colour, skin of some colour possibly different from the colour of the hair, between the ages of 18 and 42, an IQ higher than most members of the Baldwin family but lower than the number of MPs in Ottawa, with some sort of intangible quality I can't describe because its intangible.

So moving on, I'm also supposed to talk about myself, but I am the one topic I never enjoy discussing.

I wonder why that is.

It's probably because, with some 475,000 words in the English language, there's a real shortage of ways to explain me. Remember how in school they kept drilling into you that you should be yourself, be an individual, stand out from the crowd? Well, what happens when you're just a little too, good at it? What happens when you are so sucessful at being different from every other person on the planet that it costs you what mankind has sought for centuries: a soulmate?

Well, first you drink a bottle of Jack Daniels while laying naked in your bathtub (water optional). Then you write lengthy treatises on the subject of uniqueness and the evolutionary biological impetus for socialization. Then you create a profile on dating websites (heavy on the often misunderstood use of the second person as a literary tool) and cross your fingers that something productive comes of it.

Maybe something involving a delicious meal, a tantalizing alcoholic beverage or two, a uniquely enjoyable recreational activity, the ability to act natural and not be under some urge to perform or be somebody I'm not, and the perfect weather to accompany it.

But hell, if I got all of those factors to come together, the actual woman becomes sort of unnecessary.