I met you at a coffee shop. You were playing Magic with some 14-year-olds, and that should have tipped me off, but I thought you were kind of cute, so I agreed to go out with you. I had to drive because you don't have a car, but--that was okay. When I got to your house and saw that you still live with your parents at age 31, that should've been a clue, too. Anyway, we had ONE date, which was a disaster, because we went to your friend's house for a "party." It turned out to be a Magic party.

You have been calling me every freakin' day since, sometimes two or three times. Now, here's a clue for YOU: the fact that I don't answer when I see your number on my Caller ID means something! You don't impress me with your detailed knowledge of Star Trek trivia, nor with your extensive accomplishments in the Society for Creative Anachronism. And showing up at 7 a.m. with breakfast isn't romantic, pal, it's CREEPY!

Face reality: you are neither Spock nor Hamlet. You're a 31-year-old who still lives with Mom, whose best friends are in their early teens, and who has never had a job and never expects to have one. And if you park outside my house with flowers again I might call the cops.