Limber Lesbians!

Shane

I renamed you Shane because she's my favorite L Word cast member and one I believe you should try a little harder to emulate. Instead, you're being all doormatlike, which, if you look at the first season and observe Tina's behavior, you'll learn is not a very attractive way to be. In fact, between Tina's sappy facial expressions and wussed-out, mewling demeanor, it's no small wonder Bette cheated on her! But for those of you out there who inexplicably don't follow The L Word as closely as I, I'll quit with the TV tawk.

Let's just set aside the various friend codes you violated in covertly hooking up with someone your good friend had the hots for. For future reference, that's just not cool. But it would seem that any karmic debt you've incurred is now being collected anyway.

Your girlfriend is playing you. Big time. I don't get how she seems remotely trustworthy when she doesn't want anyone to know the two of you are dating. I'm not sure how it all played out, since Pride was last week, but doesn't it strike you as kind of—oh, I don't know—ironic that you were supposed to stay hidden away during Gay Pride! How many kinds of wrong is that!?!

And as far as the spiritual crap goes, feh! Let me tell you about a guy I know—he's well-versed in Eastern religions and is always running off to yoga class. With his scraggly beard and yucky hemp clothing, he comes off as a sensitive, sweet guy to strangers. Those of us who know him, though, know the truth. He goes to yoga for one reason only, and that's to scam on limber babes. Seriously. That is his sole motivation for downward-dogging, and he'll even admit it once he's had a few.

So don't fall for that spiritual bullshit. Some people consider Pat Robertson a spiritual guy. That should tell you something.

I have ignored the following too many times to count, but have always found it to be correct: If your friends loathe your date, they're probably onto something. Something you can't see because all the blood that should be circulating through your brain is congregating somewhere south of your belt.

In unrelated news, I recently received a letter with a dollar bill tucked inside. Though clearly marked "confidential," I don't think I'm betraying any confidences by revealing that the dollar was a down payment in the hopes that I'd offer private, one-on-one advice about several matters of the heart and groin.

As much as I wish everyone sent me crisp dollar bills through the U.S Postal Service, that's not the way things operate around here. For one thing, my mailman is a crackhead. It's a miracle this one got by him. I have to guess Cracky was too busy reading my magazines to notice. For another, Seattle Weekly already pays me. I'm free, but I'm public. That's the trade-off.

Besides, if you have a real problem, you should consult a real professional—not someone who plays one in the newspaper.

Advice you can afford: Write Dategirl at dategirl@seattleweekly.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.