Since September, I have gone on at least one date every two weeks, and you’ve all had the voyeuristic pleasure of reading about most them. On rare occasions, I actually had enough hits on my online dating profile to choose among guys of varying levels of sanity. Once, probably because Venus was in retrograde, there was even someone attractive in the bunch. These past two weeks, however, have proven impossible to find a decent (I use that term very loosely) suitor. I usually reel in a few good guys with coy but approachable messages, but this week I had thrown dozens of hooks in the water and only came up with a handful of sad little guppies.

There was the actor who linked me to his IMDB profile, which had only two credits: “the janitor” in a made for TV movie and an untitled role in CSI Miami. He boasted about his movie career, wrote half of his messages to me in French and suggested we meet up at Dunkin’ Donuts, insisting, “There’s a really good one next to City Hall.” It takes a better excuse than that to get me to travel below Fourth Street.

Then, there was the classical bassoonist with zero self-esteem. He messaged me to propose a date, opening with a disclaimer of how painfully awkward he is at meeting new people. That panty-dropping line was made even more enticing with grammar that read like a drunken text. I couldn’t even feign interest in the guy, so I declined his offer to meet up.

I don’t consider myself a picky dater. I believe that anyone who only dates within his or her “type” attempts to justify close-mindedness. I have gone on dates that I looked forward to less than a cold-handed pelvic exam. Even the bad dates have been a healthy exercise of tolerance and an expansion of my comfort zone, but in truth, the whole process is completely exhausting.

Even the good dates I’ve been on have proven too good to be true. On any given second date, the novelty and excitement of meeting someone for the first time is gone. You realize that the “chemistry” you thought you had was just a shared vulnerability of putting yourselves out there combined with the nerve-lubrication of a few beers. You’re more comfortable the second time around and all the unsavory facets of your personality slip out, as you slowly start repulsing each other. My chronic pessimism usually surfaces around the second-date mark and pretty soon, his veiled misogynistic opinions creep into our conversation, ending our date with a awkward hug/cheek kiss hybrid before we break into a sprint in opposite directions.

I’ve always been cynical about romance — both on and off the Internet — so I’m not too disappointed that online dating hasn’t quite panned out for me. There may be plenty of fish in the sea, but I’m hanging up my rod for the winter.