Can I read you something yet unpublished? A little sneak peek? I wasn’t going to read this, but. Okay. Do you guys know Modern Love, the column in The New York Times? Well, I wrote a Modern Love. And I’m planning to submit it this week. So if you have any thoughts on it, please, I’d really appreciate your feedback. Here goes.

This is it. My big Modern Love column. If you’re reading this right now, you’re reading The New York Times. It could be the paper edition, but more likely you’re using a private browser to access unlimited free articles and hide your porn addiction from your significant other. I know I am.

But that’s not what I’m writing about today. I’m writing about Modern Love. My Modern Love story started on {today’s date}. That’s today. I’d just started to read aloud at {name of event}. The piece I was reading was this one.

The piece was about dating apps. The piece asked the thought-provoking question: Had anyone at {this venue} swiped on my dating profile? Would any of the literary-minded, generally uninfected men in the crowd be interested in hooking up with a person who is in town for one night only? And, more importantly, would I be able to transform our casual encounter into the perfect anecdote for Modern Love?

I paused during my reading to allow the gentlemen time to open their dating apps. Go ahead, I said to them. It’s not rude. In fact, I’d prefer it.

After all, I wondered, didn’t I have a lot to offer? My breasts are so pendulous, I have to buy bras at a special store. My vagina is so tight that even smart cars can’t park there. I can make love with at least as much skill as the editorial interns pulling an incredible Modern Love column out of the slush pile and changing my career trajectory forever.

Is it so ridiculous to think that I could make an instant physical connection, turn it into a soul-searching longread, and get my first byline in The New York Times?

Is it so ridiculous to think that in this day and age, a woman could will a hookup and a publishing credit into existence, merely by speaking it aloud at a free literary reading? Yes, I said to myself. Yes. Anything is possible through {name of event}.

I opened my Tinder app right there in the middle of the reading. Ah, there he was! Gorgeous. Perfect. I immediately swiped on him. Oh. That’s funny. I guess we didn’t match.

Okay. Next. Positively drool-worthy. I swipe on the love of my life once again and… okay, so, no match there, either. Maybe he’s in the bathroom or something. That would explain it.

Number three — okay, well this guy just looks scary. I don’t want to get murdered. As my mother always said, a publishing contract is no good if you’re dead. But I swipe on him anyway, just in case.

Maybe the man of my dreams didn’t realize that being featured in my soon-to-be viral column would benefit him as well. Did he not realize that fame and fortune would soon be at his doorstep? Perhaps he could land a tell-all followup article, All of this for the simple price of one reluctant hand job outside {this venue}. To clarify, the reluctant party would be him.

Never fear, I thought. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love never gives up. At least, that’s what I’ve written here in my piece, because I need to show that I’ve gained some wisdom and self-awareness over the course of my romantic journey. After all, I want this to get into Modern Love, not The New York Magazine sex diary. God! Can you imagine?

Love is not jealous. Love is definitely not desperate. Love will be hanging out at the bar after the show, waiting to talk to literally anyone.