I don’t know what’s going on with me — maybe it’s sheer laziness — but for the first time in what feels like forever o’clock I don’t want a boyfriend.

Cue Fred Willard, smiling, “Wha hoppen?!” I don’t know, Fred Willard, I don’t know. I think I just don’t care anymore. The only men I want are fictional. Like Don Draper. And Don Draper. And maybe the kid from 500 Days of Summer. And Don Draper. It’s easier to want fictional men because there’s no fear of rejection. And you know that they’re attractive and everything that you’ve always hoped they would be.

The only downside of course is that you can’t introduce them to your friends/show them off. Not only because they don’t really exist but because it would be a little disquieting if I said to my friends, “I’m dating this great guy named Don, he’s in advertising, he has a stern brow, and I think he may take me to Gimbel’s for lunch!”

I read in a magazine that Amy Sedaris has an imaginary boyfriend, saying something like, “In order for a relationship to work, one of you has to be imaginary.” This was a revelation. Maybe a dark and unsettling one, one that you shouldn’t tell people about, but holy shit I agree with her.

I’d like you to meet Sven. Sven is in the music industry. He’s very handsome. He kind of looks like Don Draper but thinner and younger and with less of a stern brow and a hint of stubble. He’s tall and he likes to wear feathers. At least once a week we go to Hugo’s Tacos off Riverside. Sven just loves Hugo’s Tacos. Our thoughts on Hugo’s, the restaurant, is a little mixed: I think it’s a little too loud and annoying, and Sven thinks it’s the quintessential LA restaurant but without the bullshit. So then I joke, well then how quintessentially LA could it really be, Svenny? and he smiles an awkward Bob Dylan smile and somehow we wind up talking about Robert Altman.

I still don’t quite understand exactly what Sven does for a living but I love to look at his business card. His office has a signed poster of Mariah Carey but it’s signed by Stevie Nicks. Sven has the best stories. He has a house in Laurel Canyon, which I hate, because I hate driving on Laurel Canyon but I know he’ll never move. Once you get past the drive and the annoying parking situation, it’s the perfect house. It has a small pool in the entryway and it always smells like sun. Sven has a dog named Mack, short for Mack The Knife, with the entire name spelled on the collar. We like to catch a film at the Laemmle on Sunset after work. But Sven knows that sometimes I get tired of going over the hill so we hit the Arclight in Sherman Oaks.

Sven doesn’t have any trace of an accent which surprises people. He has a wonderfully weird sense of humor that is never crude. He can cook but only 2 dishes but those dishes are exceptional. Unfortunately he smokes. I keep threatening to smoke 2 cigarettes for every 1 that he smokes, to try to get him to quit. But Sven knows that I’m bullshitting. He knows me so well.

Okay. I know what you’re thinking.

Where exactly are they going with this Joan plotline on Mad Men? They didn’t even really address it in the premiere.

I also know another thing that you’re thinking. You’re thinking that, you just said you didn’t want a boyfriend, but here you are going on and on about an imaginary one. Wouldn’t that indicate that maybe you do indeed want a boyfriend?

I don’t. I would much rather have Sven — simply for his lack of existence.