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You are on a top ten most popular baby names list from 1984-1987. You work in midtown. You have been promoted a socially acceptable number of times. On first dates, you usually say something neutral but deeply insecure, like, “Yeah, all of my friends work at startups,” or “Remember Duke Nukem? Great game. Never played it, but great game.” You once spoke on a panel or to a New School class about ‘culture’ and ‘the media.’

You find Gmail’s “Did you mean to attach files?” notification helpful.

Despite the panel you once spoke on, you’re deeply concerned you will never produce compelling art or sustain a real interpersonal connection. When you get especially drunk, you talk about god, your childhood, or how you want to cash in your savings and go work on a cruise ship.

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You communicate with your hookups via Facebook chat and MMS, exclusively. Your graphic design site is hosted by Go Daddy.

In high school, you drove a Nissan Sentra and identified with the music of Alkaline Trio. You recently ‘got your life together’ and graduated with an associate degree from the New York Institute of Technology. Last month, you secured some freelance work for your uncle’s Oriental rug company.

You commute to a suburb of Philadelphia every other weekend to visit your high school girlfriend, Mischa, and Cody, the son you fathered with her. Your new year’s resolution is to be a better dad to Cody. Last weekend, you took him to a science museum, 3-D movie, or to get haircuts at an old-timey barber shop.

You have a screensaver. It is space-themed.

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Your name is Cheryl, Colleen, or Linda. You have foster children of varying age, gender, and race. They all share one bedroom. You use government-issued vouchers intended for the foster children toward your computer classes at a nearby community college. You often tell the foster children, over single helpings of mac and cheese, “Things will be different when I start my own e-bay business.”

When you have your sister and her husband over for dinner, you talk about “doing right by the foster children” and ask for six thousand dollars.

You email your sister after the dinner from your optonline.net account and apologize profusely. You email her husband and reiterate your need for six thousand dollars.

You never start your own e-bay business.

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You respond to most text messages with “kewl” or a series of unrelated emojis. Left to your own devices, you monopolize conversations by repeating things about “net art” and “nu American rave culture.” You’ve talked about every party you’ve ever attended. The comedic timing of that joke you made about Skrillex is one of your most recent personal regrets. You understand SOPA less than you let on.

Deep down, you hope happiness isn’t a transitory thing and that the people in your life won’t leave you. They continue to leave you.

You keep meaning to find your minidisc player. And to have a space-themed screensaver.

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1. Chris “Birdman” Andersen (center/power forward, Denver Nuggets). I do have a thing for blonde white boys, but this guy is too much. After a highly publicized expulsion from the NBA for substance abuse (they never said which drugs, but I’m betting on coke or speed — gross), he returned to the NBA with a giant “Free Bird” tattoo inked on his neck in a Rainbow Brite color palette. Total deal breaker. Also — I don’t date guys with mohawks, even if they’re famous.

2. Gucci Mane (rapper). I love Gucci Mane’s music, but the guy looks like a mix between Joe Camel and Jabba the Hutt. Physical repulsiveness aside, Gucci’s semi-recent ice cream cone facial tattoo celebrating his release from the psych ward (wtf?) and even more recent legal problems caused by him shoving a woman out of his moving Escalade after she refused his $150 offer for sex (double wtf??) are two characteristics that bump him off the list. “Mental incompetency,” indeed.

3. Blake Griffin (center, LA Clippers). First, I’d never get with a Clipper. Second, even though BG is a total beast on the court, he looks a bit like a Neanderthal. Blake Griffin makes Kris Humphries (ex-Mr. Kim Kardashian and current power forward for the New Jersey Nets) look like Einstein. I can look past a little mental inferiority in a rich/ hot mate, but Griffin sort of looks like he shouldn’t be allowed to drive.

4. Rick Ross (rapper). Sorry, Rozay, but this ride has a weight limit. I actually kind of dig a little cushion for the pushin’, but when you’re pushin’ 500 lbs, I gotta say thanks, but no thanks. I mean, how do his groupies even find his penis? Also, weight aside, Rick Ross is a former corrections officer. How tame and un-gangster can you get? If I’m going to marry a rapper, he better be a G who’s spent some time on the right side of the prison cell, am I right?

5. Ron Artest, aka Metta World Peace (small forward, LA Lakers). While I admit to a disturbingly strong physical attraction to RonRon, his obvious mental problems make him a deal breaker. First of all, guy changed his name to Metta World Peace. METTA WORLD PEACE!! I simply cannot and will not recognize that as a legal name. Second, he named his daughter “Diamond,” and I can’t get down with that. Incidentally, Diamond recently announced that she wants to change her last name to World Peace, to be more like her daddy. Now, that’s some dysfunction I want nothing to do with. (Although I did run into Artest one time outside the SLS Hotel in Hollywood, and he is definitely a Grade-A piece.) So, RonRon, if you wanna hook up sometime… hit me up on Facebook. P.S. – Go Lakers!

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1. Gather all the requisite blankets, pillows, tea, and snacks on the couch, which will now be your home base.

2. Turn on the TV to something innocuous. Think about how the TV is less for watching and more as a white noise companion in your standoff against injury.

3. Arrange the pillows in the perfect sandwich of support, with your weakened body as the meat.

4. Think about your body as meat.

5. Think about how you instinctively chose your body to be meat in a sandwich instead of cheese. Feel good about what that probably says about your self-perception.

6. Put your laptop on your stomach and get on Facebook. Immediately realize that Facebook is unfriendly territory for the sick and injured, it invariably serves to do nothing more than remind you of all the exciting things all of your able-bodied friends will be doing. Feel a little pissed at yourself because if we’re being real here, you probably wouldn’t go anyway.

7. Decide that Facebook isn’t going to be a part of your recovery process anyway.

8. Get up to get your wallet. It should’ve been part of your setup all along. All that nonsense online ain’t gonna buy itself. Your rent ain’t gonna make itself late.

9. Engage with the TV. Bring it out of the white noise recesses and push those buttons. This is how you interact with the TV:

• Start out with something enriching, like a documentary about the Cold War. Eventually (10 minutes, give or take) this will get old.
• Move on to a trash-disguised-as-intellect program like theE! True Hollywood Storyof Kate and Pippa. Prepare an argument about how you’re only watching it because the media’s ability to create and destroy celebrities and the effect it has on the consumptive population is fascinating to you in an anthropological way. This reason is in case your boyfriend walks in and asks why you’re watching that trash. In reality, you are thinking about how Pippa’s ass is really not all that, and how Prince Harry must feel really vindicated about turning out to be the hot one.
• Eventually you will be watching re-runs of Friends because that’s the last stop on every TV train. There’s something remarkably comforting about watching the same known-by-heart episodes as an adult that comforted your sick self as a kid. You need not create further explanations for your boyfriend. If he doesn’t get that, screw him.

10. Listen to the new Florence + the Machine album until you know it really well, until you can claim emotional possession over it, until you can look forward to the moments that draw out your tender little feelings, and get ready for them to ensure they have the maximum amount of impact, like holding off on an orgasm until it’s as big as it can be.

11. Cruise random dewy photos on WeHeartIt.com and judge yourself. Feel above the 17-year-old girls who post/ take/ feel things from photos on there. Simultaneously realize that you kinda still feel something, but it’s a little darker, a little more hollow, a little more stale. It’s not the same as what they feel but it’s enough to make you forgive them, and more than enough to make you envy their youth.

12. Think about how silly it is to feel jealous of youth in your mid-20s.

13. Wonder if, the last two activities considered, you really are anything near as evolved and superior and mature as you’ve always liked to pretend you are.

14. Realize that you stopped claiming that about yourself a while ago. Furthermore, realize that you no longer think it’s important to be ahead of your age-indicated normal in terms of maturity. Remember the comfort you now have with process of growing and learning and the awkward perfection of existing in this weird wasteland between young and grown. You are best friends with your in-progress-ness.

15. Realize that last chain of thoughts just brought you back to smugly thinking you’ve got it all figured out by acknowledging and claiming contentment with not having it all figured out. Throw up your hands and realize that, all in all, you’re probably absolved.

16. Spend an unhealthy amount of time wondering if it’s normal to be so afraid of everything (spiders, storms, slipping and falling and dying, terrorists, debt collectors, exes, etc.) that you don’t leave the house sometimes.

17. Wonder what’s an unhealthy amount of time.

18. Feel homesick for every time you were happy.

19. This is where you start to go to the dark place, and you don’t even attempt to clip the flow. Accept that sometimes you need to really go there, look the bad thoughts in the face and say, “I see you, you dirty minge. I love you. Get out of me.” Decide being stuck on the couch indefinitely is the right time to go all Jersey Shore bar fight on your dark side.

20. Instead, tweet something at one of the Kardashians in an attempt to get them to retweet you. You’ve done this before; it hasn’t worked. Hope that the rest of your Twitter constituency thinks you’re just being ironic. Maybe you are. Mostly you wonder what it would take to get that retweet. You don’t know where that falls on the irony scale because sometime in late 2009, it stopped being okay to discuss, think, or even say the word irony without incurring eye-rolls all around.

21. Feel kinda glad that after positively goddamn everything being ironic for a few years in Hipsterland (oh we also can’t say “hipster” anymore; even the once-progressive notion that “Everyone’s a hipster” is tired and trite now), irony is no longer a valid excuse to do something, nor does it excuse something, nor does it make something interesting. Irony obviously still exists, but it takes more to hold the fickle hipster attention lately. Sincerity is the new black, and you like that.

22. Wonder what the next black is.

23. “Black” looks like “back” and goddamn, your back hurts. Feel the temporary Twitter distraction wearing off and realize you’re still in the dark place. Laugh about the appropriateness that the Kardashians are somehow part of that. It’s not a happy laughter.

24. But seriously, why does stuff like this always happen to you?!?!! And here we go: recount every crappy thing that has ever occurred in your life, allow yourself to spin out in a messy fit of victimization. Think about every failed love, every hangnail, every time you felt you would never reach your full potential, every time someone wronged you/ stole your parking space/ cut you in line/ lied to you/ broke your heart/ carelessly let you break theirs/ did something you were totally going to do but they did it first (seriously, HotorHomeless.com was your idea! Assholes.)/ did any injustice to you. Think about it until the weight of it makes you dizzy and you’ve got yourself half-convinced that you are, like, kinda cursed.

25. Acknowledge that most of your frustration is with yourself. You could do more. You could work out, write, sleep, throw dinner parties, shave your legs, volunteer more. You should’ve accomplished more by now. Your “ingénue” window is getting smaller. Consider that it might’ve closed already.

26. Wonder why, most of the time, your mother doesn’t answer when you call.

27. Jesus Christ, your kitten is so uncomfortably cute when he sleeps.

28. Decide to get over all that darkness, at least for the time. Be honest with yourself that this decision has less to do with really being over it, and more to do with being too lazy or too scared to really get into the heavy stuff, the burning black matter core, where all those other bad little tangents shoot off from. They are the apples. You won’t let yourself even look at the tree. Realize this hesitance might be part of the tree. Stop there.

29. Want to have sex, but realize that’s what got you into this situation in the first place. Declare an embargo on dick. Look forward to the signing of the peace treaty.

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There are few ways to express yourself at the office. There is the occasional framed photograph, a collage of postcards from exotic places, or an uplifting quote pasted to the cubicle wall. Some opt for creativity. I have a colleague who keeps a small toy horse on her desk, and in times of stress, will surreptitiously stroke its mane. When asked if she had a horse, she said no, and when asked if she liked horses, she said, sort of. The point is this: she’s definitely expressing something.

With the advent of technology, the easiest mode of expression at the office is through the computer desktop. Our bosses control so much of our lives—our hours, our daily tasks, our anxiety while using the public restroom—but in many offices, they can’t control what photographs we paste to our desktops. Here are some common themes:

Look At My Lover

The photograph of the lover is explaining to the rest of the office: Hey, I have a life outside of this hellhole. People love me and want to sleep with me. I’ll prove it—look at me and my boyfriend on this mountain, hiking. I’m smiling at the camera while he snuggles my neck or kisses my cheek. Yes, I’ve obviously taken this photo myself, holding the camera as far as my arm will stretch. Because I’m not Inspector Gadget, it’s actually a pretty unflattering photo, but look — LOOK AT MY LOVER.

Look How Active I Am

The activity desktop often employs the dark silhouette against a pretty background. Look at me galloping on the beach, backlit by an orange sunset, while wearing my Lululemon workout gear. Or, look at me with my snorkel pushed up over my face, having just surfaced from a deep sea dive, dripping wet and smiling. Attractiveness is not on the priority list, and I will often be sweating profusely, having just finished a marathon or jumped from a very high airplane. This is to explain to the rest of the office: I know I’m forced to live the life of a sloth in here, but if you guys saw me out there, in the real world, you’d be impressed. I’m pretty damn active.

Look At My Pet

This desktop background comes in a variety of options and is a personal favorite of yours truly. Having no boyfriend to speak of and living a fairly inactive lifestyle, this is my means of expression. Because I’m a fan of animals doing people things, my pet desktop usually involves my small, black dog wearing something funky or clever, or doing a human activity, like typing on the computer. Sometimes the pet owner is in the photo, cuddling said pet, but often the pet is sans human, alone, an individual. It says: I’m funny when I’m not around you all. I can dress my pet up like she’s a ball player or an office worker, like me—her owner, her lover, her entire freaking social life.

Look How Social I Am

This social desktop is favored by the office twenty-somethings. Red cups or Heinekens are never shown, but my colleagues can get the feeling by the glossy eyes and the too tight hugs of many smiling blonde girls that several drinks are somewhere in the periphery. Usually, all of my friends aren’t looking at the camera (they’re having too much fun!) and someone has their mouth open because they’re probably telling a very funny story or screeching loudly in gleeful enjoyment. To the office, I’m saying: Hey, trust me — I don’t need you guys. I have plenty of friends and plenty of fun outside of this dump.

Look At My Vacation

Usually, the vacation desktop makes use of an exotic local. I might be pressing hard on the Leaning Tower of Pisa (ha! I’m bending it!) or smiling from atop some white-washed terrace of Greece or zip lining through the tree tops of Costa Rica. Usually, this desktop is supposed to prove to my co-workers that I’m worldly. (However, I’ve seen this backfire when the vacation photo depicts a family reunion at Disney World.) If it goes according to plan, the vacation desktop is supposed to say: Hey co-workers, I’m not a boring nine to fiver like the rest of you. I get out and see the world! HOOYAH.

There are some creative, miscellaneous desktops—backgrounds which consist of hundred dollar bills, planets in the solar system, or my favorite pony. But the personal photograph remains a tried and true favorite. So get out there, and choose that computer desktop that best represents you. The whole office is waiting to judge.

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image – The Office: Season Two

Benedict Cumberbatch is the star of the BBC show Sherlock and also of this one reoccurring dream I have where we ride unicorns off into the rainbow mist and make out under a shooting star.

The hilarious Meghan O’Keefe of the Huffington Post referred to this sweeping Cumberbatch panty-twisting fever as a full-on situation. It is. Tumblr can barely contain itself from gif-ing his every expression and witticism. We’re in the middle of a glorious Internet Cumberbatch revolution.

But more than the dulcet tones of his caramel voice or his razor sharp Tilda Swinton cheekbones, Benedict Cumberbatch has a really funny name. It’s memorable, it’s ridiculous, I can’t get enough of hearing it. Here are some things I would do, if Benedict Cumberbatch was my name:

1. Open a trendy bakery called “Benedict’s Cumber-Batches of Crumpets.”
2. Found an independent security firm called “The Cumberwatch.”
3. Order a complicated coffee drink at Starbucks and give the poor barista my full name to call out.
4. Tell people I was in Harry Potter…as myself.
5. Yell my own name whenever I sneeze or say “Benedict Cumberbatch you” to someone else who’s sneezed.
6. Name my firstborn child “Quidditch Cumberbatch.”
7. Start a rumor that if you say my name three times in a row while looking into a darkened mirror, I show up at your house.
8. Check out library books and write my name in all of them with a different year ranging from 1860 to present day.
9. Whenever someone calls anything “cumbersome,” punch them in the face and yell, “Cumbersome? Cumber-all! Cumberbatch!”
10.  Instead of asking the time, walk around asking people what year it is. Then say, “Sorry. My name is Benedict Cumberbatch: Worldclass Time Traveler.” Then, run away flailing.
11.  Seal every envelope with the red wax seal of the Cumberbatch crest: an eagle holding a Union Jack in one hand and giving the middle finger with the other.
12.  Marry someone with the last name “Batchcumber” who wants to hyphenate.
13.  Insult people by calling them “a real Benedick Cumbersnatch.”
14.  Phone a big-time law firm and leave a very important, time sensitive message with an assistant. Hang up before I can spell my name for them.
15.  Become a chef specializing only in a specific type of breakfast eggs.
16.  Stab someone in the back and pretend I don’t understand the irony.
17.  Open a novelty store where I only sell Victorian era portraits with my own name scrawled across the faces in Comic Sans MS.
18.  Buy a pet falcon and name him “Benedict Cumberscratch.”
19.  Hook up with a stranger and refer to my own pubes as “The Benethick Cumberthatch.”
20.  Run for prime minister.
21.  Shout ‘YOU JUST GOT CUMBERBATCHED, BITCH’ whenever I win an argument.
22.  Become a famous actor. Force everyone to say my name all the time.

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Paige Michalchuk — You’ve been prescribed what people would deem “fun” pills but refuse to share them with friends because you “actually need them.”

Manny Santos — As a teen you weren’t allowed to have a boyfriend, but owned thongs that would set off an airport metal detector.

Peter Stone — You date emotional fixer-uppers.

Emma Nelson — You make people uncomfortable at restaurants.

Jay Hogart — You don’t have a favorite book.

Ellie Nash — You believe moving to New York City will fix everything.

Spinner Mason — You’ve spent actual money on Alien Ant Farm paraphernalia.

Darcy Edwards — You really believe in “Catholic School Chic” and have owned several pleated skirts despite going to a public school.

Sean Cameron — You’ve drunkenly purchased Spaghettios (or similar Chef Boyardee products) in the past six months.

Hazel Aden — You are afraid of hand jobs.

Spike Nelson — You’re worried you may have cut your hair too short this time, every time.

Craig Manning — Your ability to attract the opposite sex despite being a total mess is really irritating for your emotionally stable friends.

Holly J. Sinclair — You used to wear white eyeliner.

Marco Del Rossi — You’re unsure of how to wear a vest but hope to someday pull it off.

Alex Nunez — You haven’t spoken to your parents in years.

Snake Simpson — There are too many forceful women in your life.

Liberty Van Zandt — As a child, you recorded audio of yourself giving fake interviews and award acceptance speeches; you still talk to yourself in the mirror occasionally.

J.T. Yorke — Your penis is abnormally large but you didn’t figure out what to do with it for a long, long time.

Mia Jones — You’d probably be screwed if you weren’t so good looking.

Joseph Jeremiah — You desperately wish high school never ended.

Toby Isaacs — You’ve read The Game and accidentally employ pick-up tactics when you’ve had too much to drink.

Ashley Kerwin — Your nail polish is perpetually chipped.

Jimmy Brooks — You have a lot going for you, but you’re impotent.

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One 16 oz. jar of butternut squash pasta sauce, because you promised we’d start cooking more. See also: one package of fresh, handmade pasta, probably moldy by now.

Three wire hangers (one bent). You don’t deserve the plastic ones.

One James Patterson thriller, originally stolen from work. If you think that I actually want this back, then it’s just more proof we shouldn’t be together.

Two small silver keys, that I was once so excited to have.

One month’s supply of birth control — wait, seriously? Shit.

One mini-fridge, borrowed from my dad after he heard how disgusting your fridge is. There was no way I could have lifted it down the stairs (I got my stuff alone, working quickly before you got home), so have fun dealing with that when you move out.

The ability to listen to Bloc Party without dissolving into tears.

Two empty Tupperware containers, previously containing 12 almond-cranberry cookies I made because my grandma always taught me that baking is like love. I took the cookies.

One Post-It note, attached to the Tupperware. Ten words, including two mentions of “love” and one “baby”, and a sketch of two hearts – I’d rather not be reminded.

One pair black socks, fallen behind the bed. I knew they were back there, I just didn’t want to lay on our bed again to have to get them.

One iPhone charger, also behind the bed. I’m actually regretting leaving that one – you owe me $30.

Fourteen months of my life.

Two bottles imported Belgian beer. I’ll tell you that it’s fine, that you can just keep them because they were a gift, but really it’s just because I couldn’t fit them in my duffel bag.

One bouquet of yellow flowers, now wilted and rotting on your desk; a reminder of how quickly things fell apart.

One striped sweater, size small. Another gift that I just can’t look at anymore.

Ten photographs of me, ranging from cutely inappropriate to definitely NSFW. I couldn’t find (and destroy) them, but I hope you’ll do that instead of posting them online. Please.

One pair red silk panties, with matching lace bra, originally worn in photographs (see above). Left behind partly to remind you of what you’ll be missing, and partly because I can’t stand the idea of wearing that again for anyone else.

That warm, fuzzy feeling I used to get when I saw other couples in public holding hands or kissing and knew how they felt and how happy they must be — now I just want to throw things.

One table lamp with adjustable neck. From all the nights you were working late and I stayed up reading, waiting for you.

One freestanding heater, with remote, because I remember how cold our bed could get on those nights.

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Five pairs of shoes is entirely too many for one weekend away.

The world is not coming to an end, but your patience for the people in it will wear awfully thin.

Quit sleeping around, you chippy.

It’s election time again. Know what you must do.

Screaming at the game through your television set increases your team’s chances of winning by 8%. Keep up the good work!

Seven rounds of drinks is entirely too many for one night on the town.

You will frequently wind up kissing boys sitting next to the boys you should be kissing.

In the end, labels mean nothing. But haven’t you always fancied yourself in something Chanel?

Listening to rap music will not make you any less white.

Be kind to the other girls. Even the mean ones. They are very scared.

You will wake up on an unfamiliar bathroom floor with a throbbing head and bruised knees.

You will meet Chevy Chase in a crowded restaurant and find yourself at a stunning loss for words.

Someone in this room is faking their orgasms.

Speak less, listen more, write everything down.

Trenchcoats and wayfarers will never go out of style. Buy, buy, buy.

Swallowing your enthusiasm is actually more uncool than you can ever know!

Doling out insincere kisses is diluting the sincerity of your true ones.

Jesus may not come back, but Kurt Cobain most certainly will.

Make your bed, make some tea.

White flour kills. Processed sugar kills. Cigarettes are okay in moderation.

It’s time to retire that sweater you wear. You know the one.

How many men have you satisfied with “Under My Thumb” playing in the background? Reevaluate your goals.

Heaven help you if you buy that bottle of wine from 2004.

You are not in a fraternity. Act accordingly.

You are only on this carousel once. Grab that brass ring now.

Fortune cookie say: take it from where it comes.

Jeff Goldblum has a secret crush on you — you lucky, lucky girl.

Dance, sweet thing, dance.

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1. Do Not Bring Flowers. Allow me to clarify here. If you’re going to bring her flowers — which, it must be noted are always a lovely gesture, and something we will always appreciate — only give them to her at her house if you’re picking her up. Allow her to get the proper vase, cut the stems, and display them nicely on her entryway table before you guys enjoy your night on the town. If you meet her while out and show up with a bouquet of gardenias and a “Hope you like it” grimace, she’s going to have to pretend to be happy as she accepts her terrible fate: carrying around a giant bouquet the rest of the night like an enormous douchebag. At the restaurant, at the bar, out dancing — what the hell is she supposed to do with a giant-ass bouquet of flowers? Even at weddings, you throw them to a bunch of spinsters and let them deal with it. Don’t make your first date suffer like this. It’s just cruel.

2. Chill Out With The Cologne. Despite what those horrendous, horrendous Axe commercials may have convinced you, we do not want to be able to smell you coming from two blocks away. Our attraction to you is, in fact, inversely proportional to the amount of Drakkar Noir you’re wearing after a certain, crucial point. It’s almost preferable to smell vaguely of man and nervousness than an overwhelming tidal wave of musk. Just, please don’t. We’ll try to calm down with the Chanel No 5, too, if it makes you feel any better.

3. Even If You’re Planning On Hitting It Tonight, Try To Hide It. Let’s face it: Some guys (and girls) go into that first date looking to knock some serious boots at the end of the evening. And that’s fine, we’re all modern people here, there’s nothing wrong with a little barely-know-you nookie. The thing is, though, if you constantly hint at and joke about going home and having some well-condomed sex at the end of the evening (protection first, as you’ve known each other for a solid 3 hours), you’re going to make your date feel extremely uncomfortable. There is nothing worse than feeling the looming pressure of having to slither out of an overeager proposition to come to the guy’s house when you clearly just want to go home and Skype with your girlfriends about what happened. Let things happen naturally, there’s no need to make things awkward.

4. If You Invited, Pay. I believe, firmly, that whoever invites the other person out for the date should offer to pay (though let’s be real, even if the girl came up with the idea, the guy will often still want to break out his wallet). But if you invited a girl out for dinner or something similar, the idea that you would look to her with a “Hey, equality between the sexes” look and a vague gesture towards her purse is horrendous. You are out here to wine and dine, what would Don Draper do (besides smoke about 85 cigarettes and look painfully into the distance)? Yeah, exactly. If you can’t afford an afternoon out at Chipotle, you can’t afford to date.

5. Don’t Get Crazy Drunk. There is an exact amount of drinks — scientists are still busy in Geneva cracking the codes to the exact amount, they’re honing in somewhere around 2.7776 — that will allow you to be the perfect combination of calm and charming. After that, you become drunk guy (and, of course, this goes just as hard for ladies — but men are often foolishly convinced they have superhuman abilities to “hold their liquor”). Don’t be drunk guy. Not only do you risk breaking rule 3, but you also may very well tell her about that worrisome cyst, the one you’re going to go to the doctor about soon but just haven’t gotten around to doing yet. No one wants to hear about that cyst. Not on the first date. Trust me.

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1. The Unicorn

The Unicorn is totally normal and well-adjusted. He has a good job, and makes a decent living, but is not a workaholic. He likes his family, but doesn’t live with them. He is funny, and well-informed, and cooks a mean pasta bolognese. He has friends from all periods of his life with whom he is still in touch. He is not an alcoholic, drug abuser, or porn addict. He reads. He is easy on the eyes, or even hot. He is taller than you. The Unicorn longs wistfully to meet his special someone, to lay his head in your lap to watch HBO on Sunday night after a weekend full of chores and friends and family, and to wake up with you on Monday mornings in perpetuity.

The most important thing to know about The Unicorn is that, as his name implies, he does not exist.

2.  The Married Guy

Look away from The Married Guy. He is either faithful, in which case you should concentrate your energy on trying not to hate his wife for her obscene good fortune, or cheating, in which case you should concentrate your energy on hoping he falls down and breaks his ankle, at a minimum. Either way, he is not for you. Don’t give him a chance to flirt with you, even at a wedding; it will only erode your faith in humanity that much more.

The most important thing to know about The Married Guy is that he is already married and therefore nonexistent, as far as you’re concerned.

3. The Eeyore

Poor Eeyore. Some woman done him wrong, and he can’t get over it. Maybe it was a divorce, maybe just a non-contractual broken heart, but either way he can’t love again because it just hurts. too. much. He sure can mope, though. He lives somewhere grim and bland, with unadorned white walls and no headboard. The bulk of his emotional energy goes to nursing his great scabby wound, carefully enlarging it day by day. Eeyore may perk up for a bit when he meets you, because even forlorn people get horny, but he can’t be happy with you long-term because he cannot be happy. If your cup of love and affection truly runneth over, feel free to unload some into the gaping maw of Eeyore’s unhappiness. You won’t get it back, but perhaps that will lighten the load for the rest of your journey.

The most important thing to know about Eeyore is that you can’t fix him, but you can waste a lot of time trying. No seriously, you can’t fix him. For real.

4. The Peter Pan

Oh, Peter. He is so cute in those tights. His childlike enthusiasm for life helps you unearth the old, fun you, who stayed up drinking until the bars closed and talking until the sun came up. Sadly the old you, like the current Peter, did not have a job that required leading staff meetings at 9 a.m. At some point in your relationship with Peter, you will remember the benefits of 8 hours of sleep and sufficient hydration, and you will gradually become the buzzkill who starts tapping her foot impatiently when Peter orders another round at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday, or worse yet the fuming harpy lying rigid with fury as you wait for him to stumble into the house at last call.

The most important thing to know about The Peter Pan is that he can’t resist something shiny, and eventually you will become dull, what with the desire to sleep at night and the full-time job. Best chance with Peter is to meet him when you are 25 and perhaps grow up together. Wave bon voyage to that ship, for it has sailed.

5. Mr. Saturday Night

Mr. Saturday Night is a big success. He has a closet full of Ben Sherman shirts and if he doesn’t yet own a bespoke suit, rest assured that he soon will. Mr. Saturday Night smells good and drives a nice car, which he valet-parks with assurance at trendy restaurants. He owns a well-furnished condo in a high-rise, with black leather modular furniture and an unused kitchen. With his carefully mussed hair, gym membership, and backslapping affability, Mr. Saturday Night is half overgrown frat boy and half metrosexual, but all narcissist. He’s a good date if you like wearing heels and drinking martinis in places that are always a bit too loud, and don’t mind spending weeknights alone while he works late and gladhands with business associates.

The most important thing to know about Mr. Saturday Night is that he will look almost as good at 45 as he does at 35, and it’s then that he will marry the smart, attractive, and blonde-highlighted type of 30-year-old that you were five years ago.

6. The Braying Ass

Not to be confused with poor Eeyore, The Braying Ass is single at 35 for reasons that he can’t quite discern but you readily can. He condescends to waiters, interrupts your sentences, elicits a weary if wincing acceptance from colleagues, and has a little too much body hair to be overlooked in light of his other bad traits. The Braying Ass subscribes to Maxim. He is confident for no good reason. He is a little too close to his mother, who loves him with a fierce and unsettling passion. He has an annoying, honking laugh, but nice eyes and a good heart.

The most important thing to know about The Braying Ass is that he is not ideal, but he actually looks pretty good in some lights. Some of his bad traits are just habits that can be reversed in time, but some run far deeper, and you will be cringing about them at dinner parties ten years from now. Make that 40 years if your kids inherit them.

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