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“Your online dating profile must be a disaster,” she types back to me within seconds of my question-mark response. ”I’ve decided to make T-shirts that say “Team Jen: helping her find a boyfriend since 1988,” since it seems that everyone has taken on my relationship status as their personal philanthropy project.

She’s just a friend of a friend of a friend who occasionally reads my writing on the Internet. I’m at work drawing snails on a notepad, deciding whether I want a cinnamonbun the size of my kneecap or a slice of cheap pizza for lunch.

There’s my mom, my rabbi, and my best friend, who recently got engaged.

Even my cleaning lady asked to take a picture of me around with her to query the residents of other apartments she goes to. There’s nothing wrong with my online dating profile, though it shines an Instagram-like filter over my life, making it look exciting and, well, different from how I really spend my free time: stuffing down $1 slices of pizza and lounging around in my fleece pajamas watching season after season of "Mad Men" on Netflix. Use a picture of Heidi Klum in a bikini as my photo and write a vague description of my hobbies like everyone else?

And if I’m out at a bar and I hear “Don’t Stop Believing,” I can easily transform back to acting like a college freshman.

Location: Sitting behind my Mac Book Pro, trying to scratch off the dried smear of peanut butter that’s made itself at home in between the G and H key. Okay, fine -– it’s really more a Jack and Coke color, but every three months I march my butt to the salon and give some nice hairstylist a chunk of my paycheck to make it look more like champagne. Weight: Umm, before or after I finish a medium pizza all to myself?

Truly shows how confident and free spirited you are.