All I want for Christmas is... Santa to be real again.

This past Friday, my twenty-ninth day of true unattached singledome, my dear friend Jillard and I decided to go have some good ol' country fun at our favorite bar: Wait for it.... in ENUMCLAW. A bar that only plays country and hip hop, a bar where our BDD vanishes as soon as our cowgirl boots hit the floor, and a bar that is crawling with every type of man that has ever existed: cowboys, gangstas, stand-alone creepsters, ROTC weirdos, (and our personal favorite) over-juiced Jershey Shore wannabes. It's basically our “Cheers” and everyone is welcome... we LOVE it.

Our night started typically, Taco Time in mouth and “Knock 'Em Out” blaring from my little bitch's Audi. We were promptly bought drinks by a too-drunk, too-old, too-pathetic to say no to cowboy, and made our way to our corner. Yes. “Our corner”... we are now Friday night regulars and the waitress insists on calling me Margaret because of how funny she thinks it is that that's my proper name... FML.

My gorgeous and hilarious 30yr old bestie is currently seeing an adorable 22yr old who doesn't even know what hit him, so we promptly met up with him and his friends: MISTAKE #1. I then promtly decided to follow through on my “I'm sick of being single and I am now a man-hunter” plan: MISTAKE #2. I set my sights on one of these 22yr old friends: Yes, MISTAKE #3. ANYwho, we will call this new interest of mine “DB”.

Before we go into how I behaved, giving him brush off after brush off, I should explain. I'm at a point in my life that I don't believe in romantic love AT ALL. I don't think it exists, I think it's something we grow up expecting, like Santa Claus. A belief in true love = a belief in Santa Claus (which) = ONE BIG DISAPPOINTMENT and pointless embarrassing convos in which you stick up for Santa to your friends. And oh DB, thank you for confirming this terrifying belief of mine.

I spent the ENTIRE night dangling my carrot and taking it away from this poor hot specimen of a lad. "Flirting? I'm in! Dancing? Ummmm... not with you! Throw me over your shoulder to show off your muscles and make me feel tiny? Please right now! Sit on your lap? Only if I can vomit on it too!"... You get the idea. Our night ended with me giggling, only allowing him to makeout with my neck since we have yet to invent a tongue condom, and an exchange of phone numbers and an un-prompted vow to marry me. Fast forward an hour... phone calls, sweet texts, and a sweet goodnight from my new boytoy. Fast forward six more hours... four un-prompted wake up-calls and three texts from none other then, HIS GIRLFRIEND OF THREE YEARS.

Bravo, DB, bravo. Not only do you have a crazy on your hands, who is now also on mine, but you have not surprisingly proved my point that love is fiction, I'm better off alone, and that my cowgirl “fashion boots” ARE made for walkin...