It seems to me, on some days, that my problems with women are a lot like my problems with drinking. You wake up the next day with a throbbing headache, full of sincerely genuine regret and remorse, and then end up swearing black and blue to yourself that this time, THIS TIME will be the absolute last. No more, no more, you are completely finished with this crap. Done, kaput, it's over. Not worth the cost.

There's plenty of porn on the internet. And I do have quite a few female friends. So it's just a simple cut-and-paste job in photoshop and then I reckon I've pretty much got myself a relationship sorted. And THAT is some serious return-on-investment financial genius rogue trader dodgy hedge fund shit right there. No stumbles, no missteps or stuttering shyness or flowers required. No over-analysis or reading-too-much-into, no vague lines or blurry coke-bottle boundaries, no grim and Aztec crystal pedestals requiring the blood sacrifice of a human heart—to uncaring gods indifferent anyway.

I want a realdoll, with your face on it.

But I give up! On women! For real! Just like a thousand times previously, and like a thousand more times to come.