Between sketchy housemates and sorority sisters, my Facebook-stalking skills have become as finely tuned as those of the CIA. Too bad my penchant for pot-stirring cancels out any secret-finding ability with secret-telling. Perhaps investigative journalism will make a nice compromise, but that’s a different article. So, have you ever Facebook-stalked anyone?

 

I have, but I still fact-check every detail I find. I imagine that if I ever realized I was interested in the same sex, I would still double-check during a date, too, just to make sure. “Wait, wait…you’re a lesbian, right? Okay, cool, that’s totally what I thought, just makin’ sure.” I would ask then for the same reason I ask now, and it’s not simply for the sake of fact-checking. I’m scared of rejection, and of not knowing what to say. Yes, we all are, but none of us admit it.

 

It’s almost impossible to effectively introduce things these days if you’re not the host of an awards show or a corporate bro making the rounds, which is why FB stalking can take the edge off things–you’ll already know exactly what to talk about.

 

Today, I’ll be trying to introduce you not only to this article, but to this little regular piece I’ll be writing, a column if you will, because the only thing worse than making introductions is when people go ranting off to you without stating their existence. So here it is.

 

I am Sasha and I will on occasion write this column to you, faithful (existent?) reader. I am presently residing in Sash Angeles (what they call Los Angeles when I’m in town) and am soon moving to join my FroSo roommate and our fellow Larkin lover to live in Westwood. Actually, I am incrementally moving there because, by some clown-car trick, I managed to fit more in my Murray dorm room than I can manage to fit into my SUV in two trips. But a couple days ago, I was lucky enough to exchange awkward introductions with my neighbor, the hottie.

 

My introduction with Hot Neighbor was awkward, yes, but what I lacked in charisma due to personality-stunting medication, he made up for in plucked grins and Nordic bone structure. Palms clammed, pulses quickened, hearts swooned (all mine). And, of course, Facebook stalking ensued. And what did I discover of Hot Neighbor? He’s a model.

 

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised given that this is L.A., where models roam the streets looking for billboard opportunities like post-apocalyptic zombies search for human brains. Plus he’s just really hot. But there goes any hope of this being a summer sex column and me being the next Carrie Bradshaw. And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder…

 

So that’s my introduction to you. Just one girl in the big city, moving to pretty-close-to-Bel-Air-but-still-quite-modest. Also, did I mention that I pay my own rent? With money that I earned myself? Seriously, someone get me an introsem to teach.

 

Sasha started her writing career with notes under the pen name “Mom.” She did not live in FroSoCo, but the term “FroSo roommate” is more succinct than “roommate from freshman and sophomore year.” Make your introductions with her at [email protected].