Singled Out: The Lesbian in Love with Self!

"If I were gay, I would totally go for me," says my super sexy therapist after spending an entire hour trying to brainwash me with her preposterous theory that I might have ambitiously high standards in dating matters. Ironically, I had spent that same hour killing myself in trying to explain to her that this has nothing to do with standards or expectations but everything to do with preferences.

I prefer to be with someone exactly like me. Is it such a crime to fancy your own self?

There, I said it: I'm a huge fan of moi and if it were physically possible I would date me in a heartbeat.  

Think about it. It's actually quite the best possible match and at least I'd know exactly what I would be getting myself into because I'd know exactly who I would be dealing with. No unexpected, unpredictable, unpleasant surprises here!

Me and I would totally be in sync. I'd always laugh at my jokes; would never argue over what group of friends to hang out with on weekends; would never fight over who's in charge of the TV remote control; would always be punctual on our dates; would know when to give myself some space; would pick me up when I'm down and cheer me up when I'm feeling blue; would never have to pretend to be anyone else other than me; would never have to worry about cheating on me, lying to me or changing my mind about me. And most importantly, at pivotal, celebratory occasions such as birthdays, anniversaries and - my personal favorite - Christmas, I would always infallibly surprise myself with that one super thoughtful gift that I absolutely really wanted and that says, "Here honey. This is because I unconditionally love you, because I really know you and because you mean the world to me."

But apparently, according to my know-it-all super sexy therapist, this is not a realistic aspiration and very much qualifies as an unhealthy psychological indisposition - something about abnormal thinking and distorted perception of self.

Of course she had to go academic on me and use some seemingly fancy medical terms to show how erudite she is. English please!

Thank God I'm not stupid! I can read between the lines. What she's basically saying is what I have been telling myself all along and that is that I'll remain single for the rest of my life.

Oh please, save the teary "awww" and pathetic "oooh" for Oprah!

I'm honestly perfectly fine and accepting of my fate.  Seriously, have you ventured into West Hollywood lately? At the risk of being my usual, cynical, negative self, there's absolutely nothing "wow" to see. Not to be mean - and evidently I am totally making a biased generalization - but if I have to go through one more of those superficial Abbey or East/West kiss-ass fests with the usual self-appointed power lesbians and wannabe celesbians, I'll go back to being straight.

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It's not that I am giving up on my fellow lesbians. I'm just saving my time for more productive, quality-oriented things such as staying home and getting to know someone extraordinarily fascinating and captivatingly interesting: me.

And this totally came as a surprise but I found out that I have quite a few sterling, hidden skills. For instance, I can fall asleep faster than the complete scrolling down of any movies' opening credits. I can cook anything in less than 10minutes as long as it involves opening a can of tuna.  And get this! Apparently I excel at imposing total tyranny on my neighbors and at exercising complete dictatorship within the entire building complex - yes! They collectively hate my guts. But frankly, it's not my fault if they incessantly disturb my peace and quiet past my 8:00 pm  curfew. At least now my name is not only famous at the Hollywood Police Station but as well among the other 14 tenants who systematically know the anonymous caller was I. 

All right, I'll be serious for a minute.  It struck me just now that I'm not necessarily aging too well. I mean that the older I get, the more my level of tolerance seems to dissipate. Clearly, time has taken whatever amount of patience had ever existed in me, and has now left my bootie with the impressive zero margin for bullshit to work with, which --needless to say in LA -- goes against the rule of the majority.

I'm not at all jaded or bitter. I'm just not desperate to be with anybody who's not a flawless replica of me. Anything less or other than me is just too much drama for Mona.

What's essentially happened is that over time I have valuably gained a certain amount of wisdom and maturity that has allowed me a clearer picture of who I really am. And guess what? I am nowhere near where I had envisioned myself to be and nowhere close to being who I thought I was really.

What all this blah, blah, blah translates into is that I know now not to ever trust myself under any circumstances when it comes to relationships - specifically the "first encounter" part of it. All the great common sense advice I give my "in a relationship" friends -- which ranges from breaking the chains of co-dependency, setting your own personal boundaries, asserting yourself individually, learning to compromise and knowing how to be supportive of your significant other - I of course never EVER apply.

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The minute I meet someone I like something very strange happens to me. I am no longer me... It's almost like I won some kind of genetic DNA lottery for imbecility. And if you don't believe me, well obviously you were nowhere near me last weekend when I sublimely made a royal ass of myself.

The scene of the crime was the Hotel Café in Hollywood. The time was a little after 10:00pm - way past my bedtime - and the motive was an acoustic evening with Billie Myers. How could I not break my usual "intimate evening with Mona" streak for that?

Cut to the crime itself. There I was after a kick-ass show, minding my own business when out of nowhere some girl grabbed my arm and politely inquired, "Are you Mona?"

"Depends who's asking," I jokingly answered, thinking I was absolutely hysterical, cute and irresistibly charming - right!

 "Yes I am," I immediately added to avoid the disaster of a potential failure at a first good impression.

Mystery girl turned out to be a business acquaintance I had repeatedly worked with for the past couple of years, but only via email or phone. What startled me was not the fact that I was finally putting a face to the name but that she was sinfully gorgeous.

She proceeded to engage in a conversation, and I of course commenced my speedy descent into idiot-land. The sad thing was that as much as I was aware of the load of retarded crap that was naturally flowing out of my mouth, I couldn't control it.

"Listen to yourself Mona! You're demented! Shut up!" I mentally kept telling myself.

"Say something smart for God's sake," the voice inside my head was begging me, to no avail.

Surprisingly, mystery girl didn't punch me in the face for my insufferable idiocy but did cut our conversation short and abruptly fled the scene. Clearly, if I could date myself, the world would be a safer place for everybody.

Didn't I tell you my uselessness is epic?

Granted, it's not easy to be me much less to be with me. 

But frankly, it surely can't be that complicated to find me?

Read more of Mona's Singled Out.