He wasn’t my conversational equal. I’d suspected as much all along: We’d talk about one or two things, come to a lull, and I’d mentally declare “cuddle time!” It was springtime, and I guess the fever had gotten to me. Anyway, I knew it was a bad sign when we were on the phone and I’d wish one of my friends would call me to rescue me from our lame conversations.

—Carmen

Aftermath: After an intense month of hanging out or talking every day (about jack s***, apparently), we called it quits.

After only a few weeks of dating, I agreed begrudgingly to accompany him to his best friend’s wedding, where he was Best Man. After being ignored all afternoon, I rejoiced in meeting a sweet, in-the-closet, spotty teenager who was a competitive ballroom roller skater with fabulous outfits. Too bad he rejoiced in meeting me, too. I couldn’t shake this poor boy. He literally followed me wherever I went, while my date smoked cigarettes with his friends. I finally told my date, “If you leave me alone with that kid one more time, I’m breaking up with you.”

—Suzanna

Aftermath: That’s exactly what happened.

I left him on the couch while I took a long, hot, post-jogging shower. When I emerged, he was sitting in the exact same spot. “What did you do while I was in the shower?” “Sat.” He hadn’t surfed the Internet, read a book, taken a nap. He’d sat staring into space for 20 minutes.

—Autumn

Aftermath: I tried for eight months to make it work because he was the nicest man I’d ever met. When I finally dumped him, he kicked my kitchen cupboard and broke it in two.

I figured out he was just agreeing with everything I said and did. It was creepy, really. Like he had no personality of his own.

—Suzanna

Aftermath: I waited until after St. Patrick’s Day to break up with him. It was a big day for his restaurant, and I wanted to support him. Unfortunately, I got completely blotto and ended up puking in his bathroom all night. The next morning I told him we “just didn’t have anything in common” and had the best drive back to my house ever.

We worked together at a bar and you know how that goes: Sweaty work tensions can be relieved with sweaty play. One night after closing the place, we end up back at her studio apartment and go directly bed-wards, where things were marvelous. Afterward, as she slept, I had to use the bathroom and I noticed something very strange about her apartment. She didn’t own a single book. Not one. Not even a thriller or a bodice-ripper or a Reader’s Digest Condensed Classic. That was that.

—Will