So last night I had a dream that Zach Braff was my boyfriend. A situation which, in my opinion, would make any girl happy. But I woke up depressed. Because in my dream, I loved Zach, but poor Zach was a terrible kisser. Big deal, right? Why be so glum? Because, well, it is a big deal. (*I disclaim here by saying, hey, I'm sure I'm not the greatest. But I know I'm no slouch*)

It made me think: I don't think I've ever been attracted to someone after establishing that he was a bad kisser. Now, of course, you don't know if someone you're initially attracted to sucks at, well, sucking face. But I thought about it...and I can't recall ever getting that weak-knee thing for some sloppy tongue thruster.

When I lived in DC, I dated a guy in Baltimore for a while. By about our third date, I knew we were through because, damnit, he was just an awful kisser. (There were other things, too, of course - the constant "Catholic girls are so this, Catholic girls are so that." Hey, buddy, we just met - I'm not so anything.) But the bad kissing is where I drew the line. Just like my poor dream boyfriend Zach.

Here I had *the* guy: funny, cute, smart, wrote "Garden State," a doctor, and I couldn't fully love him. To the point that the real me woke up and sighed. How is it that something so seemingly unimportant as bad kissing, could possibly turn you off of someone so good for you? And yet we can be attracted, against our greatest will, to people who are jerks to us, or for one reason or another, just not right for us? Huh?? Hello??? I'm waiting...

And how is it that some guy named Al, who you talked to for about 15 minutes in the Cleve, can call you out of the blue weeks later and invite you to a party this weekend? (And no, not a "pants" party. Sorry for the smartass who would've suggested that.)