Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

I am writing you letters even though we haven’t met yet. Right now I’m just a twenty-something lesbian living in New York City, but maybe someday these letters will become a self-fulfilling prophecy and we’ll be living in the suburbs with your pets, which I will tolerate, and my many computers, which you will somehow suffer with grace. Until then, I’ll keep writing to you all about how I think we’ll meet and how awesome we’ll be as a couple.

I might also take some time away from my directionless longing to answer the prayers and questions of readers struck with their own relationship woes. I’m just that kind of generous person.

If worst comes to worst and I never find you, Pretend Girlfriend, then maybe some enterprising publishing house will capitalize on my soul-crushing defeat by offering me a book deal. I’ll take either, really.