Oh happy dagger, for the dashing, pant-pressing Señor Laroo has bid me adieu and our torrid courtship, too. "You viper-tongued tart!," spat he of the buoyant coif and architectural leanings. "May you never know the dizzying rapture of a golden section." Truly, reader, I felt ruined; my heart, still it hurts. But then, Coco Mia, bosom confidante, sent an S.O.S. package to the divan where I'd weepily flung myself, wilted and wan. Inside was one giant flan and the official NYC Dating Primer drafted below. I beseech you to eliminate prospects from any of the five classifications exposed in the guide, for eventually they will drive you to chronic journaling and a... More >>>