Well, today marks exactly one year since my divorce was finalized—and the start of my thirteenth month of solitude. To spite the women who chime in on every thread like this asking, «Does nobody want you?» I’ll answer: someone does. But the caliber of women available simply doesn't satisfy me. I’ve been with over ten different women this past year—specifically, women with whom I shared an intimate connection. Four or five of them were women I met through dating apps. They were all good women—intelligent and attractive. But… I’m done with problems. Done with high-maintenance relationships. Done with having to make decisions for someone else, or having to shoulder other people's burdens. I suppose I’m just burnt out. All I want now is a quiet, happy life—not all this drama.

1. Women with children. I’ve tried dating women with kids three times now, and honestly, I just don't get the appeal. Why bother? Why should I have to deal with someone else's child's problems? There’s been a recent trend of people insisting that «you shouldn't hit children,» yet I’ve noticed that none of the women I dated were actually *disciplining* their kids. I’m not advocating for corporal punishment, but when your child throws a tantrum in the middle of the street—screaming and acting out with total impunity while the entire neighborhood watches on like it’s a movie—you really need to stop and ask yourself where you went wrong as a parent. I have absolutely no desire to take on the responsibility of raising someone else's child.

2. Every woman I’ve met has had financial issues—mortgages, outstanding loans, dead-end jobs they hate. Starting a relationship—let alone having a child—with a woman who’s saddled with 12 million in debt just doesn't seem like a smart move. What happens when she goes on maternity leave? Who’s going to be left holding the bag for that debt?

3. Appearance. I’m no «alpha male,» and I’m certainly no male model. I’m just an average guy—no receding hairline, a couple of dental implants and crowns, and I try my best to keep my weight in check. I’ve certainly seen it all: sagging breasts, cellulite, missing teeth, smoke-stained stumps. This is just a small fraction of the issues facing women over 30. One could dwell on this topic endlessly, but nowadays you can get dental work done in just about any basement; just take another look at your budget—skip the latest iPhone release, quit puffing on your IQOS for a couple of months, and you’ll find the funds.

I am not some bitter adherent of the men's rights movement. I don't demand anything more than what I myself am capable of giving. I have no desire to solve other people's problems, nor do I wish to create any myself. After a year of dating, I see no point in entering into a relationship with modern women. That ship has sailed for me. To the men who found the strength to raise another man's children—I shake your hand; I couldn't do it—you are better men than I am. As for domestic life, I’ve simplified it for myself as much as possible: a washer-dryer combo, a dishwasher, a robot vacuum, a water heater, a fresh-water filter… and I do all the cooking myself.

And now, the top list of cringe-worthy dates:

1. I met up with a woman. I won't deny it—she was beautiful: 32 years old, gorgeous hair. During the date, over a cup of coffee, she informed me that she has four children, one of whom is being raised by her ex. They live in a two-room apartment—and to top it off, her mother lives in the other room. When I asked how she envisioned our relationship, she replied: «You’ll move in with us, and I’ll have a baby for you.» I declined.

2. I met a woman on Pure specifically for sex. She speaks several languages ​​and has traveled halfway around the world. During sex, she slapped me across the face—apparently, that’s her fetish. She’s 40+, but she isn't looking for a relationship; she’s perfectly happy on her own, and finding sex isn't a problem for her.

3. Most women are looking for a guy who doesn't pay child support—even though they have children themselves—and on top of that, they declare right there on the date that they don't plan on having any more kids. When I ask them, «So, what’s the upside of this kind of relationship for *me*?» they can never come up with an answer.

What is this post about? I don't know. People say that a man's «prime age» begins after 30, but it certainly doesn't feel that way to me. All the childless women seem to have been snapped up already; mostly, what’s left are the unwanted or «high-maintenance» ones. I guess the only option left is to wait until I hit 40+, when their kids will have grown up and started families of their own? How do you guys manage out there—the single, childless guys aged 35+? I’ve only just embarked on this path myself.

So, there was this one time I went on an «extreme» date—one I might not have even made it back from alive… It was around 2010, the heyday of facebook. I was messaging back and forth with this gorgeous girl on there when she wrote:

«I’m just so sad at home right now… so lonely...»

Now, being the «knight» that I am—or so I thought—I immediately replied:

«Hey, tell you what: I’ll come over with some cognac; you whip up something to eat, and we’ll have a good time.»

She shot back: «Let's do it!»

I was a starving student at the time, so—anticipating both food and romance, and not wanting to jinx such a stroke of luck—I spruced myself up, put on some cologne, donned a pair of clean underwear, and drove all the way across town to her place...

I arrived. The door opened; a mysterious silhouette slipped into the kitchen, and I heard:

«Go on into the living room, sit down—make yourself at home.»

And there, laid out on the table, was a spread: sausage, cheese, potatoes!

I set down my bottle of cheap, bootleg «Ararat» brandy (the three-star variety) and thought to myself:

«Any minute now, I’ll get to eat… and get to the 'other stuff' with that beauty, too. What a lucky guy I am...»

BUT!

Into the room walked a woman twice my age—with fried-looking dyed-red hair and a stretched-out tank top—looking utterly unkempt.

I just stood there:

«Um… hello? Where’s Sveta?»

(I think that was her name.)

She replied:

«Don't take this the wrong way, but *I’m* Sveta. The photos online aren't actually me—because if I’d used my real ones, you never would have shown up...»

By that point, however, the smell of food had already gone to my head, so I decided:

«Ah, screw it. I’ll stay anyway—at least I’ll get a meal out of it. Then I’ll bail.»

We sat down, had a drink or two, and I started absolutely pigging out on the sausage. Meanwhile, she began telling me the story of her life—and with every passing sentence, her spirits sank lower and lower, until she finally burst into tears. Then she started openly biting her nails, and suddenly she turns to me…

I remember it like it was yesterday: she was tear-stained, a snot bubble was inflating right out of her nose, and she said—in this sultry, languid tone:

«KISS ME.»

Total shock. I started trying to backpedal, mumbling something about how we were just friends...

With every excuse I offered, her eyes seemed to fill with blood.

At one point, she leaped up, grabbed a massive dirk that was hanging next to a portrait of her sailor grandfather, stood right over me, and screamed:

«DO YOU WANT ME TO SHOW YOU—RIGHT NOW—JUST HOW LONELY I AM?!»

And she took a swing!

They say that right before you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes; but for me, only one thought flashed through my mind:

«I’ve really done it this time… Oh God, please don't let me end up on the 'Crime News.' It’s always just drunk stabbings on there—Mom would see it on TV… what a shameful way to go...»

She stood there with the knife—seething, trembling.

I sat in the armchair—terrified, with a mouthful of half-chewed sausage and underwear that was no longer exactly clean—and switched into «therapist mode»:

«Alright… show me. But hey, let's have one more shot first, okay?»

She let out a breath and sat back down—though the knife was still clutched in her hand.

«Will you stay the night?» she asked.

I told her I would; I promised her the moon—all while pouring the drinks.

And the moment she started to take a sip, I seized the opportunity—and couldn't think of anything better to do than simply tip her over, chair and all, onto the floor.

She hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, rolled under the radiator, and let out a hiss:

«PRAY FOR YOUR LIFE, YOU BASTARD!» I grabbed my backpack with my teeth, tucked my brand-new Nikes under my arm, and bolted down the hallway—all while praying to every god imaginable that her door wouldn't have some stupid, finicky lock.

Because if it did, I’d be absolutely screwed—riddled with stab wounds and serving as the dramatic footage for the evening news.

But no—I got lucky.

Having miraculously managed to get the door open, I ran home barefoot and scared shitless.

I didn't make it back until nearly dawn.

My friend was visiting when I got there—the same guy I’d bragged to earlier that night, boasting that I was heading out on a date where I was definitely going to get laid.

And he delivered the final blow with a single question:

«So? How’d it go? Did you get laid?»