I had thought that the news of my availability making its way through the rumor mill would have caused a veritable parade of women through my house. Alas, this has hardly been the case. It has become clear to me that I must take things into my own hands.

For the past week I’ve been keeping a diary, affectionately called “Please let me get a date before I start sacrificing small animals to Baal and parading nude on the roof in hope that someone will take pity on me.” It’s also known as Georgette. In the spirit of sisterhood with all of those other single queer women out there-and on the off chance that I can charm them into sending me email-I would like to present some excerpts.

Monday: Declared that I was tired of being single, damn it, and was going to do something about it. Was only one in room at the time unless you count hermit crabs, who seemed unimpressed. Perhaps they are homophobes.

Tuesday: Made list of every single lesbian that I could think of on campus. Eliminated those who are one step from a civil union, close friends, those who have dated close friends, those who are excessively closeted and wouldn’t wish to date someone as out as I am, and anyone who scares me. Realized that I have eliminated virtually every lesbian I know on this campus except for myself. Realized that I am in fact looking pretty good right now.

Wednesday: Stood in Women’s Studies section of the library with a lotus flower behind my ear and a hopeful expression. Went out for coffee with bi-curious Women’s Studies and studio art major who spent two hours discussing various forms of oppression that are perpetrated by people who use products with too many chemicals. Asked her out anyway, was turned down because she wasn’t comfortable with dating someone in a Greek house.

Realized that I am possibly on the only campus in the country where sexual orientation is completely overshadowed by being Greek. Things turned nasty-got into a hummus fight that culminated in a riot. Vegetarians vs. vegans-ended when someone pointed out that everyone was late for a consciousness-raising session. Never again. Note to self: how do you get chickpea out of shirt?

Thursday: Attempted to inspire sexuality crises in cute heterosexual girl by playing Melissa Ferrick’s “Drive” over and over again while telling coming out story. Drunkenly read excerpts of “Rubyfruit Jungle,” the only non-erotica book I had on hand wherein every girl that the protagonist was interested in slept with her. As amounts of alcohol consumed became more copious, both of us became more and more weepy and decided that burning old momentos of those we dated in the past and dancing around the bonfire was a wonderful idea. No idea when burning clothes also became good idea. Singed eyebrows, ended up in lockup for evening. All rumors about prison dykes thus far completely untrue.

Friday: Slept off hangover, had friends post bail. Spent an hour chatting up a cute butch before realizing cute butch was really a fourteen year old boy. Hate it when that happens. Still getting together to play video games-have created a new game called “Leisure Suit Lesbo” wherein someone who-completely coincidentally-looks a lot like me spends life dating attractive librarians. Note to self: when in doubt, retreat into fantasy.

Saturday: Considered options. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so picky in excluding anyone who lives more than two hours away. 42 isn’t really that old. Maybe my mother can introduce me to someone. Heterosexuality wasn’t really that gross, was it? Wait, it was. How much would it cost to shave head, buy motorcycle? Spent day hoping that some couple on campus would break up.

Sunday: Realized that at this point most couples on campus need help in breaking up. Have renamed myself “the homewrecker” and dedicated day to learning how to hack into other’s email systems, forge handwriting, stalk. Soon the ladies shall be mine. Contemplated grand plan to have all lesbians on campus want to date me. Cackled maniacally. Paused for breath. Cackled maniacally again. Note to self: see doctor about disturbing facial tic.

I think I’m getting the hang of this being single thing.

Kristen Minor is a member of the class of 2004 at Dartmouth College, where she hopes that summer will bring an epidemic of sexuality crises among her class. She can be reached at kristen@youth-guard.org, except for next Friday where she will hopefully be watching a movie with that cute girl from Astronomy class.