My roommate has returned from France.

This means that I no longer have a bachelor pad.

I had four months of living alone. The possibility therefore existed of having freaky sex parties and creamy-skinned, taut-bodied hotties in my bed every night, but all I did was start going to bed at 9:30.

Is that a bad sign?

I saw The 40-Year-Old Virgin (very funny movie, by the by), and I identified with a disturbing amount of it. He:

- Rides a bicycle and does not own a car
- Has an OK, but profoundly boring job
- Hangs out with people five to ten years younger than him
- Has meaningful relationships with elderly neighbours
- Has action figures on prominent display in the main living area of his home
- On Fridays, instead of looking forward to what he will do on the weekend, looks forward to what he will eat on the weekend.

Lordy. I think it might be time for ol’ Matty to get hisself a date. It is Friday, after all.

The problem seems to be that I’m two years single and becoming rather fond of it. I force myself to date because I remember that I enjoy sex and companionship, but that memory is starting to be eclipsed by my growing fondness for sleeping and sandwiches.

Internet dating was an interesting sociological experiment, but I think I’m just about done with it. I had a few nice smooches and a few more decent conversations, but all I seem to be able to remember are:

- The Eastern European woman who would only communicate via strange (and not very good) poetry, and who, when we met, got thoroughly drunk (on my dime, I might add) and started screaming insults at the band we went to see
- The folk singer who decided I was stalking her because I went to see one of her shows (with a group of friends, and she had given me a flyer for the show on our first date)
- The girl with herpes and Was I OK With That
- The woman who listed her favourite baby names in the third email
- The woman who stood me up on our first date, didn’t call for a week, then asked me to rent a car and drive her to Calgary

I thought when I started Internet dating that I would meet some brainier types because I signed up via The Onion, but I quickly discovered that it was all hooked in through other dating sites so I was subjected to bar twinkies and middle-aged American women just south of the Wash-BC border trolling for young Canuck meat. Don’t ask me why that happens, but it does, and I have never (yet) been tempted to investigate their reasons.

You know, after contemplating these memories, maybe I’ll just turn in early tonight. But maybe I’ll make myself a nice sandwich first. With pepper salami, and maybe a little mustard.

Man, I can hardly wait for the weekend.