Seeing as how I’m going to be graduating in three weeks, the chances of my finding a man, falling deeply in love, getting married and moving into a dirty but lovable studio apartment on the East River, where we will wear our berets at a jaunty angle and laugh at people who watch reruns of "Married… With Children" (even though I secretly will be taping them—for mocking purposes only), are pretty slim.

Quite frankly, this worries me. Because according to reputable sources, like my mom, the Bible, and network television, there is absolutely no chance that I will be able to snare a man after the age of 22, unless I use some sort of man-trap involving a can of aerosol cheese and two tickets to the Superbowl.

Okay, so that’s not true. Many people found that someone special after college. Like the people in the Manson family, for instance. And Larry King. And yes, even normal, respectable people who don’t murder other people or wear big scary red glasses and suspenders. However, it is a proven fact that I am not one of those people, and I am going to die alone in a rat-infested tenement apartment, surrounded by autographed pictures of Pat Sajak and a mile-long latch-hook recreation of the Last Supper, with only my cat, Mr. Winkles, to mourn me.

All I know is, if I had any chance of having an even remotely acceptable boyfriend—my ex-boyfriend John does NOT count, since a) that was in high school and b) he was an evil insidious Spock-ear-wearing creature from beyond the moon—I would have gotten one by now.

"Why do you suppose this is, Kim?," you ask, rubbing your hands together like a fly over last night’s hoki. "Surely it’s not because of your hair, which looks like you slathered it with manure and rubbed it around in the dirt. Or because you watch—and yes, even savor—professional wrestling. Or because you often wear do-rags in public. Or because you can burp louder than an Amstutz fire alarm. Or because you admire the musical stylings of Neil Diamond. Or— "

No, it’s not any of those things. But thank you for your concern. Really.

I think it’s because I’m so incredibly sexy that I scare all the men away.

My mom also believes this to be true. And my mom is never wrong.

I mean, what else could it possibly be? I am witty, intelligent, and have a working knowledge both of the game of football and the entire series run of "He-Man and the Masters of the Universe." I also have very big boobs. Okay, medium big. But still.

So here’s what it must be—guys see me, sitting in Convo with my do-rag and my sweatpants, and they really want to come over, but once they get within like fifty feet of me the aura of my beauty blinds them, sending them stumbling off to get their arms caught in the garbage-go-round (which, incidentally, is why it breaks down so much.)

In fact, they are so turned on by me that they have to avoid me altogether, in order to prevent the catastrophic collapse of society that would ensue if all the world’s men flocked to me (as they certainly want to, except for, you know, that whole losing-an-arm-in-the-tray-return thing.)

Yes, this must be the case. There is no other rational explanation.

So I say to you, the world’s male population, that it’s okay to approach me! Feel free! I am not only sexy, I am benevolent, too.

Except to those of you with Spock ears. You can all go to hell.