“Thanks for taking Leno out, Casey. I owe you.”

“Consider us even. I borrowed your car to get a tattoo earlier.”

I’m not in the apartment but two minutes before Casey reminds me for the hundredth time how she couldn’t be more different from me. For starters, she’s extremely scatterbrained and is addicted to Netflix and tattoos. Meanwhile, I’m über-focused, task-oriented, and haven’t had time to watch a show for leisure in about five years, and the only tattoo I have is the small one that needs to be removed. Other than that, she’s a wee bit Goth, totally brash, and I’m fairly certain her gauged ears are only the start of many body modifications for her. Yes, I found Casey on Craigslist. And, yes, she’s the real-life Janis from Mean Girls.

“I burned my damn ass when I got in and sat down on that leather seat. Holy greenhouse effect, Batman,” she goes on to say.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: an all-black car in Southern California is completely, utterly impractical. But then again, it’s a BMW 7 Series sedan. And it became mine after my marriage ended and there are no monthly payments on it, so who cares if it scorches your thighs every time you sit down in it?

“Is this for me?” I ask of a medium-sized brown box lobbed against the wall.

“Yup. The doorman said there was a package for you, so I snagged it on my way back up.”

I breathe easier knowing the hard drive I ordered so my computer can handle combing through more stats has arrived, which means my plans for the rest of the night are baked. I thought about messaging the Bateman look-alike for a nightcap, but how can I go on a date with Mr. Right if I don’t know for a fact that he could be just that? Statistics so far have shown me I will likely need to date upward of a hundred men before finding my ideal match. Chad was Lucky Sixty-Eight for me. Seeing how that crashed and burned, I’ve got some serious work to do with vetting my remaining guys, and pseudo Bateman is no exception.

As I set my purse down on the counter, I see two tickets for the Catalina Singles Cruise. I’ve heard of this event before, a dinner cruise that companies and organizations pay big bucks to sponsor twice a year. Basically a ferry takes a bunch of yuppie singles out to Catalina Island and back. I’ve never heard of any guests getting married, but like all cruises, the entertainment and all-inclusive drink packages make it worth it, I guess.

“Where did these come from?” I ask Casey as I hold the tickets up and dangle them back and forth, as if they are a scandalous pair of panties.

“Oh. Those. I won them in a silent auction at my brother’s high school football fund-raiser.”

“You won them? I can’t believe you’d bid on a singles cruise.” A dating environment wherein large bodies of surrounding water could potentially cause her solid black eyeliner to run down her face doesn’t sound like it’d be Casey’s thing. That’s not me being mean either; that’s me looking out for her signature Alice-Cooper-esque makeup.