I joined Match.com because I had no other options. My mail-order-bride, Sveta, found a legal loophole and was able to return to her native homeland of Russia, citing my "inability to perform," which is quite ridiculous because I majored in theater at Oxford School of Drama so like I don't even get what she's talking about.

Lewis Donahue.

That is my name. And it's what I put on my Match profile. But I may have fibbed a bit when describing myself. But I figure that's what everyone else is doing anyway so what's the harm.

"If everyone was jumping off a cliff would you?"

Shut UP mother, how did you get this number!?

I'm fairly confident I will find my perfect match on Match.com. I have seen their commercials; I trust in the testimonials filmed in front of the pristine white background. It shows promise, it shows opportunity. I have faith I will find the one—or at least the one who'll stick around so when I go to my 15th high school reunion I can stand around with pride rather than standing in the hall next to my locker of years past holding punch that went stale before I even ladled it into this stupid plastic cup.

My name is Lewis Donahue and I hope a woman will love me.

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