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By the time I moved to Alaska, I had been in a relationship without ever having been on a date.
At first, I couldn’t process the amount of attention I was getting in Alaska.
I didn’t date at all in high school; in my revisionist history I’ve decided this was by choice, but the reality was that a six-foot-tall black girl in a predominantly white town who shaves her head, wears a skirt made out of ties, and uses black eyeliner as lipstick isn’t really racking up the offers.
I found out he was cheating on me with a woman who did reiki, and I’ve never felt better about punching a man right in the face.
I’m not great with math, but I think that in an area where there are even slightly more men to choose from, your chances of boning a few of them tend to go up exponentially.
I got to Alaska the way most people do: Through personal trauma and a series of questionable decisions.
It was isolating at times, and I definitely listened to Grant Lee Buffalo’s “Happiness” on repeat in my driveway one night while crying into a large pizza for one, but when everyone you know lives 3,000 miles away, you can really amp up the dormant part of your hedonistic tendencies.
There’s a saying about dating in Alaska: The odds are good, but the goods are odd.
Like many beautiful, charming, intelligent women, I’ve been cultured to believe I am a grotesque, overwhelming buffoon, and I have a tendency to act accordingly.