Given our recent discussion (see: Monday’s comments section) about single life, I thought I’d share a New York Times article excerpt with y’all:
[A] new Web site, SingleEdition.com, wants nothing more than to embrace [singles]. And unlike dating sites that treat being single as a predicament, this one celebrates flying solo, and offers shopping, financial and other advice to help them do so with pride.
“If you Google the term ‘single,’ all that comes up is dating, dating, dating,” said Sherri Langburt, a founder of SingleEdition.com. “But what we’re saying is there’s a whole other realm of things that go on for a single person that are not dating.”
Articles on the site give advice on how to entertain in small apartments (have cheese- or chocolate-tasting parties instead of sit-down meals), how to cook for one (try freezing homemade soup in ice trays to simplify defrosting single portions) and how to select gifts for other singles (perhaps an audio book or a G.P.S. device to help a solo driver).
Swing over to SingleEdition.com for all kinds of great info about you own personal table for one. Ah, the singles life. I have my ups and down. I make mistakes. I sometimes feel lonely. I date men I probably shouldn’t, and I think I self-sabotage relationships without even knowing that I’m doing until months (sometimes years) later. That said, I still wouldn’t trade my single and dating life for anyone else’s. So, if you like SingleEdition.com, check out my Q&A interview. Yep, they got down with the funky brown!!!! Read: Chocolate, wine tasting and museum visits. No wonder Twanna has fallen in love with single living! And, speaking of chocolate, tonight I’ve been invited to a special chocolate tasting down by Wall Street. Yum! Wanna come? I’ll Twitter the details. Follow along with me.
A sexy, married man named 
I. Fucking. Love. New York!! Okay, so, I’m like toiling away in front
I’ve only met one Satan worshiper in my life. I was a 21-year-old college student in Los Angeles living away from my family for the first time. The LA lights. The Hollywood celebrities. The now-legal booze. It all charmed me. I’d only seen California in movies and on TV, so I totally overindulged. I went out boozing & partying all the time. Probably too much. My friends and I took rows of Vodka shots before we stilettoed into swank VIP rooms of bars on the strip. One of my Comrades in Cocktails was a fellow party girl named Chelsea from Santa Monica. She lived in the dorms, too. One night, we were all laughing and joking about the weirdest / oddest / strangest things we’d ever done. I was a brown-skinned, Christian country bumpkin from Illinois via Mississippi. Keeping family drama private, my biggest secrets were pretty boring. I’d cheated on a high school Algebra/Trigonometry test by tacking the formulas to the back of my calculator. I’d lied to friends and family about petty stuff. I’d gotten into a fight with a boy when I was in sixth grade. A bunch of other women in the group said equally benign stuff, too. But, then it was Chelsea’s turn. The conversation went something like this:
