This evening I was walking along the shore, trying to forget about my ex-boyfriend when I discovered a pebble in my shoe. I removed the tiny stone from my Tory Burch flat, made a wish and tossed the pebble as far as I could into the water. I felt so calm, at peace, at one with nature, until I realized it wasn’t a pebble – it was my clitoris that had dried up and fallen off. It’s official, I’m having a sexual dry spell.

My vagina is so upset, she won’t even look at me. I lie and tell her we’ve given up penis for lent, but she’s not very religious so she’s not buying it. Just when I’m about to donate my body to science to get someone to touch me, I found an iVillage poll where they asked how long people have gone without sex. 11% said a few days, 13% said a few weeks, 30% a few months, and 24% percent said a few years. Did that say years with the plural “s”? Talk about a depression sandwich smothered in loneliness gravy. Turns out my vagina had a right to be snarky, the study also said the longer you go without sex, the less likely you are to have it again.

Like a baseball player who’s in a slump I’m going to get back in the batter’s box and swing for the fences. I’m not sure why I’m using a sports analogy, but if any guys out there are reading this, I love sports, beer pong, the Three Stooges and whatever other stupid guy-crap you like – oh and I’m pretty much a sure thing.

I’m ready to hop out of the thirtieth percentile and back into the eleventh percentile where I belong. I’m grateful for this sexual dry spell because I realize I’m not the only one out there who’s not in a relationship. I’m going hit to every sports bar in the city until I meet my new-next-ex boyfriend.