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My internet-hooker friend George came to visit over the weekend, I tried my best to rally and spend some quality time drinking with him at the bar.

Sadly, my “best” is total crap. His last night in town was spent at Red Rock having dinner with a couple of my girlfriends. I wanted to be home and in bed by 10:30 p.m. because apparently I have turned into my grandmother.

As we walked into the restaurant I saw a guy I briefly dated having dinner. I haven’t seen him since I told him via email I didn’t think we should date anymore. Yes, I really AM that girl. Shut up, I had my reasons. And good ones at that, for example he likes NASCAR, which we all know I strongly detest. In addition, he had a tendency to use words on my ‘do not say’ list. The two I couldn’t deal with were: “LOL” and “faggot.” Both words make me cringe to the point of nausea. I tried to get past it, but I couldn’t. The thought of sticking my tongue into a mouth that used either word was more than I could handle.

I know what some of you are thinking, “No wonder she is single, she’s way too picky.” Well guess what, I am picky and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. I refuse to date someone I don’t respect and I can’t respect anyone who uses the “f” word in regular speak. I just can’t, no matter how much fun and nice the person is.

We enjoyed our dinner and I tried not to obsess over it, but I couldn’t help but wonder why I bother dating at all.

If there’s any one talent I hold it’s the ability to make a complete fool out of myself at any given moment. If that and sarcasm were an Olympic sport I would rock the gold. I’m completely self-taught. I only admit this because it reflects poorly on my mother when I fall down the same stairs on a weekly basis. She did teach me to walk. Though I am the one who felt the need to walk, talk, boss people around and text message all at the same time. No wonder I fall down a lot.

I’m used to looking like a fool. I’ve been doing it for quite some time–On my own, without any help from others.

So for example if we dated a few times and now work in the same building there is no need to make me look stupid, because chances are I’ve already done that on my own by walking down the hall with toilet paper stuck to my shoes. Twice. In one day.

Trust me, I’ve got the “looking like a buffoon” thing covered. So really there is no need to hang a column I may or may not have written about you for your co-workers to see, causing them to look at me with pity and loathing. Frankly, I’d much rather they dislike me because I accidentally shut the elevator doors on their foot, or knock them over when I trip on nothing in the hall way.

What I’m saying is I don’t need any help looking like an ass. Ever.

This week’s “The Dating Years.”

I met the perfect guy for my brother. That is, if my brother weren’t adamantly straight and currently dating a woman that I actually like.

I recently met a man who, despite being fantastic, is as far from my type as possible. This is causing me more stress than it should. I need to learn to relax and go with the flow. Keeping a running count of our differences is not only time consuming at this point, but also keeping me up at night.

First off, he drives an SUV. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with driving an SUV, I just don’t. I can’t seem to justify the cost of filling one with gasoline. I keep my cars economical, but can appreciate those who don’t. Mostly I appreciate them on snowy days when my great gas mileage car can’t make it out of the driveway. My brother, on the other hand, not only appreciates an SUV but has the knowledge to discuss things like lift kids and tire size. Things I know nothing about, and probably never will.

In this above-mentioned SUV his radio presets are rock, KBER to be specific. I only recognized the call letters because the same station happens to be one of my brother’s favorites. My car radio is either on a local NPR station, or on a music station that is more likely to produce bad 80’s pop music. Not necessarily because I like that music, but generally hearing Paula Abdul on the radio makes me giggle.

Last weekend, after dinner, we made our way to the dive bar Ex-Wives Place. I love dive bars, but for some reason haven’t spent a lot of time at this particular one. My brother, of course, has on a weekly basis.

And if that weren’t enough, the new guy invited me to a NASAR party he was hosting. I hate NASCAR with a passion. The “sport” makes no sense to me. I don’t understand why watching cars drive really fast round and round in a circle is entertaining. I can barely tolerate watching real sports, like football, on TV let alone four hour car races. My brother digs NASCAR. So much that he’ll often lie and tell me he has to work on Sundays only to find he’s really sitting home on his couch glued to the TV watching these dumb races. (Un)fortunately I had other plans for the big party and wasn’t able to attend. I considered sending my brother as a surrogate, but thought better of it. My brother teases me non-stop and so far so does this guy. I don’t want them spending quality time together finding more reasons to mock me.

So if/when I let the new guy and my brother meet, I imagine they will have loads to talk about. Lots and lots of stuff that makes me want to stab my eyeballs out with a fork. But since this guy isn’t too hard on the eyes, and a lot of fun to be around I’ll probably keep him around. At least long enough to fine one thing we have in common, besides my brother.

Sarah: “Are you avoiding my calls because you don’t want to hear me lecture you in the importance of voting today?”

Ben: “No. I already listened to your messages.”

Sarah: “Good. Go vote. Also, you should know I emailed your girlfriend today and broke up with her.”

Ben: “What?! Why?”

Sarah: “Her Obama shirt… I told her she had a vagina and should use it to vote.”

Ben: “Oh man…”

Sarah: “Don’t be mad. She’s the one that said she was torn between Hillary and Obama. She had to either vote for her vagina, or vote for her ‘brown’ vagina.”

Ben: “SARAH!! I really didn’t need to hear that the girl I’m dating and my sister are discussing vagina together. I’m never letting you meet anyone again. I mean it.”

I met the girl Ben has been dating last night.

In the past I’ve never really liked any of the girls he’s introduced me to. Essentially it’s the same girl over and over, just with a different name. The new girl, K, was nothing like the others. She had personality, style, and wasn’t nervous around me. In the past that’s been a problem. Ben claims the others have always been intimidated by me, but I think that’s a bullshit excuse for having zero personality.

K easily won me over in two simple acts: 1) she remembered what I wanted from Starbucks when Ben couldn’t, and 2) she pulled a flask out of her purse five minutes into the Sundance movie we were seeing.

In the reality show of Ben’s life. I vote K all the way.

Sundance rocked my world last night. Unfortunately, not in a good way.

I went to the SLC screening of Henry Poole is Here, thanks to The Yuppie, who at the last minute he was unable to attend. In an attempt to stick to my Sundance theme I took another ex. Little did I know the Gods of Sundance already had that covered. Sitting down I saw a man I dated years ago who I had very much cared for.

In one room I had two men who not only broke my heart, but stomped a version of the Cha-cha-cha on it. Well, if either of them could dance. Which they can’t.

Despite too many memories in one room without the coping help of an IV drip of vodka, I was able to concentrate on Luke Wilson’s hotness. Which in a way, was a small triumph for me. The unexpected ex was an undying fan of all things Wilson.

During the closing credits I planned my exit strategy. Typically, I don’t mind running into men I once dated, but the thought of these two particular men meeting made my skin crawl.

Tonight is the final night I’ll be attending films, and as much as I have enjoyed seeing fims I’ll be thrilled for the festival to end. My heart and I need some time alone. With, of course, above mentioned vodka.

Over the past year and a half I’ve spent time hating when I should’ve been healing. Frankly, hate is exhausting and simply not worth my time. I have better things to do. I have good friends who love me, an amazing family who adores me, and brothers who would do anything for me. I have a good life. It’s time to recognize that and get over the past.

The void has been filled with understanding and forgiveness. Life goes on, and so shall I.

And with that, I’m over it!

A “friend” took me to see the Cinderella exhibit at the UMFA last week. I thought it was a brilliant idea: taking a princess to see a princess. Hello, brownie points!

The exhibit wasn’t exactly what either one of us expected. It was geared towards children. He swears up and down it wasn’t an intentional jab. I did see this little gem which made it worth the trip:This is way better than a silly fortune cookie. I’m going to take this as a promise that a man will fall in love with me AND my shoes, despite our messy state. And if all princes are indeed clueless is that why I don’t have one yet?