Dear collegehumor column readers,

I want to apologize for my short absence.

If any of you live in New York, you know how incredibly painful and life consuming it is to find a new apartment and move. I have spent the months of May and June getting kicked out of my apartment, searching for another apartment, finding one, signing a lease, packing, hiring movers, losing the apartment I found, searching for another apartment, sleeping on air mattresses, and crying. Instead of writing, or participating in other productive activities, I walked for miles across the city and trudged up long staircases that revealed one dismal, smelly, small, unfurnished, and overpriced dwelling after another.

That being said, I finally packed up my 8 belongings, kissed today goodbye, and found a nice place at XXX East.XX Street apt XB (I have too many local e-mail stalkers to reveal my address)

So, on we travel to sex, relationships and NYC life. Here's my latest column. Enjoy!

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It would be easy for me to write a column that sugar coats my romantic status, but the truth is so much simpler and only contains three small, yet unbelievable words. I was rejected. I know. It was shocking for me as well. If you need to take a moment to collect yourself, I completely understand.
(Take a moment, sit down, breathe in and out, furrow your brow).
Yes, I was rejected. I was used and tossed away. I was spit out of a man's life like a defective ATM card. I was thrown to the pavement like a cheap whore from a speeding vehicle. And although each word I write sticks in my heart like a pushpin in a tacky bulletin board, I will continue to type. I will reveal the details. I will give to my readers what is left of my bruised and tormented soul.

I walked out of a bar and saw the man I was kind of hooking up with making out with a woman who was not hotter than I am!

Okay, so perhaps I was not spit out of a man's life, but rather overlooked. And, perhaps it is my ego and not my soul that is a little bit bruised. But remember dear readers, SHE WAS NOT HOTTER THAN I AM! So, clearly all my prior melodrama is warranted.

Now please do not misunderstand. It is not that I am incapable of accepting rejection. I am, and I have. I am readily equipped to handle being dumped for a woman that is pure physical perfection. I am readily equipped to handle being dumped for a woman that has more money than I do, larger breasts, a firmer ass, healthier hair, or one who exceeds me in reading and writing comprehension. In other words, I can cope with rejection as long as it is not without reason. In the past, all of my relationships ended so logically. "Mindy, I'm Gay," "Mindy, I love my wife and I'm going back to her," "Mindy, I'm Gay." That is why I expected this guy to say something like, "Mindy, I was drunk, she was drunk, it meant nothing, you're hotter." Or, "Mindy, she can hook me up with a great job, and has a sweet apartment, so don't take it personally." He said none of these things. So I asked him, "Why? I mean seriously, why?" and he answered, "Well, I hung out with her the other night and we had this great" connection. I don't know, she's just, like, so" fun." So I automatically played a game of word substitution in my head. I substituted the word connection for anal sex and the word fun for slutty. I slowly began to feel at ease.

Yet after my word substitution game got old, I began to actually try and digest his response. "We had this great" connection." Connection? WHAT IN THE WOLRD DOES THAT MEAN?! So I asked six of my most sensitive guy friends to help me out. They told me that "connection" meant that she was a whore, that all guys love whores, and that I moved too slowly. They told me that securing a man all for yourself in NYC is just as hard as renting an available apartment. They went on to say (in blunter and lewder terms) that I lost out on this man due to a lack of "'down payments' and "'security deposits.'

Maybe they are right. Maybe I would have better luck with men if I approached them with the same aggression I do real estate.

But am I really ready to rent out my heart?

I'm just kidding. I wrote that renting out my heart thing to pretend I was Carrie Bradshaw. I kind of feel like her now (except that instead of sitting in my underwear wiping a curly wisp of hair from my reflective face, I am fully clothed eating an ├ęclair and unbuttoning the top button of my jeans)
I digress.

I guess what I have learned from my brief, enlightening journey into the world of heartbreak and deception, is that the unfortunate looking woman making out with my guy was not the enemy, but just a female trying to aggressively curb her loneliness. And, who am I to try and stop a fellow female from satisfying herself? Besides, there are millions of men in NYC; I have no doubt that I will have a mind blowing "connection" with one soon.