The Oldest College Newspaper in Pennsylvania

The Lafayette

The Oldest College Newspaper in Pennsylvania

The Lafayette

The Oldest College Newspaper in Pennsylvania

The Lafayette

Love Letters From Ana: Letter of Resignation


In this hustle and bustle we call life, it’s difficult not to get caught up in our work and the drama of our friends and families.But there are those times, those rare times, when we stop and realize that there is something severely missing—your one, true love (or, if you’re me, this is all you think about.)

Occasionally we may wonder to ourselves or out loud in our AA support groups, is he out there? How long do I have to wait? Will my prince come to me on his white horse at last? Da dadada! The answer to this my desperate friends is, no. The prince charming you’ve been anticipating since you were five years old and first watched “Sleeping Beauty,” is a myth and always has been.

There’s really no telling if you will fall in love (or for most of you, if someone will fall in love with you)—and so, I find this column being my letter of resignation.

I’ve been writing this column for one year and with this much experience behind me, I believed myself the reigning expert on love.

But you know where love got me? It got me to interview the most obscure people about love and relationships, like the sexually manic quadlers (see column, “Never too Young for Love”). It also made me do unthinkable sexual things just to have something to write about. And you know what? Sexual promiscuity may give you good stories but it can also give you STIs.

Sexual escapades aside, I’ve dated a lot. And what I’ve realized is that a man will never give you what you really want. He may come close, but never really hit the mark that John Hughes movies will try to convince us exists. Because men have turned into these lazy, horny, grimy, chlamydia-transmitting things that force women to either settle or be chronically single.

You may still retain the thought that “Oh, Ana, he’s still out there, just give it time.” Well, soon enough you’ll be 80 and there won’t be much time. It’s better to face facts now while you don’t have dementia. And for those of you who think that I’m being cynical I have two words for you. Wake-up. If you’re reading this, you’re probably like me: alone in your room and have fluctuated 12 pounds in the last month.

My inspiration for my high-traffic weekly columnwas, of course, “Sex and the City.” Ever since I turned on that show, with those four single girls trading stories about men, I’ve been messed up in the head…I swear to god. Have you ever noticed that all they talk about is men? Have you ever notice that us, females as a species, only talk about and complain about the men (or lack thereof) in our lives? Do you know what men spend most of their time talking about?

Well, neither do I, but it’s not us. It’s definitely not us. In fact, I’m willing to bet that there are no straight men between the age 18-22 that have a deep discussion about the women in their lives in the way that women talk about men, “I don’t know John, she’s only texted me twice today. I don’t think she really likes me. I mean yeah, she could be busy, but I make time to text her. And like she went out with Becky last night, maybe they ran into her ex-boyfriend, Freddy and the hooked up. OMG what if she made out with her ex-boyfriend and won’t ever talk to me again???” ← doesn’t happen.

I don’t know how to make it clearer for you ladies. The prince is confined in fairy tales. And I know at the end of this you’re expecting me to say something like, “but there are some of us who won’t settle for anything less than magic” or some crap. That’s not gonna happen. For my last word to you, my legacy, I’ll leave you with three messages for our future women. Encourage your daughters to join a nunnery—life will be much easier. Never allow your daughters to watch “Sex and the City,” they’ll end up moving to the big city, having a collection of venereal diseases and living on in a cardboard box where the rent is cheap. And finally, make sure they know: there aren’t any Mr. Bigs, but a lot of Mr. Littles.

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