Melanie Boyer is mysteriously leaving after two years as the dating blogger for Washington City Paper, which made us vaguely sad, since even though she never writes anything obnoxious/unself-aware enough for us to feel compelled to blog about, we actually just sort of enjoyed reading it for pleasure. Until we asked someone we knew in Washington if they knew anything about it, and got the terse response:

Her PR firm made her quit.

Right, because Melanie Boyer is a publicist, and Alyssa Shelasky, as she never lets us forget, is one of those RELENTLESS PURSUERS OF THE TRUTH (sometimes we call them "journalists"). After all, as she reminded us Monday:

"If I can find Brad Pitt in Anguilla," she said Monday, "I can find my hoodie!"

After the jump, five more reasons to hate Alyssa and mourn the loss of Mel B.

1. Both have a healthy perspective on their economic relevance in a post-Web 2.0 reality:

At this point, a girl can't shit around with amateurs. The threat of global warming and global conflict is all up in our grill. A girl's got to think about that shit. War of the Worlds could happen, and then where the hell would I be? No one's going to be banging down the door for a writer when bloody veins and electrical squid are fucking shit up all over the place.


In my heart of hearts I want to move to Malibu for the summer...Then I'd move home in the Fall, and you guessed it, go with the flow. But here's the second part of that convo: Los Angeles is NOT reality. I go there to escape. I go there to beautify. There's other possibilities, too. I might have a chance to work in the Hamptons. I know, it's a little uptight, but beautiful and logical.

2. Both occasionally stumble precisely upon those feelings of loneliness shared by every single twenty-something serial dater:

Just for a minute, the phone calls had me tricked. Because the only reason you would call was if you wanted to talk to me. Right? I'm a bit embarrassed at how long it took me to figure it out. Silly girl. You call me when you're on your way to the metro. You call me when you're on the bus, or on your way home. You call me when you're on your way to somewhere else.
I wish I could say this feeling of worthlessness is all new. But I recognize it. I'm slipping into it like my blue cotton bed sheets after a couple of glasses of merlot and Late Night with Conan O'Brien.


Remember "Mystery Man" in LA? Now that he's old news, I might as well tell you, he made me feel like the biggest waste of space. I wasn't interesting enough, exotic enough, jet-setter enough — bc he was from some cobblestone European city or whatever.

3. Sometimes the people who read the blog are even more entertaining than the bloggers themselves!

All you need to do is find some guy who is in to erotic asphyxiation. you (and f_in_the_a) can gather up all that hair, make a rope, and strangle the poor dude with it. See? It's a perfect solution! You get to strangle someone, all the hair is gone, you've just engaged a sex act that you can write about. And I'm even pretty sure that the act of gathering and constructing your hairniquet will provide many of the same physiological benefits of sit-ups...


Of course I would LOVE to have Jessica Alba's body. WOW. Maybe I did for a while in HS... then I went off the dexatrim and got over the ex dumping me. Food was reintroduced...and I went to college. Oh well. I will have to say that I am pretty satisfied with my body. Of couse, I have complaints; what IS that pouch that won't go away no matter how skinny the rest of me gets (I call it baby leftovers- gross but true), I have always had thick legs and plenty of booty to go around. But then I think- I have awesome olive skin and tan like no other, long natural silky brown hair, beautiful green eyes and tons of personality to boot.

Don't thank us, but we had to wade through about 300,000 words of this shit.

Alyssacentric [Glamour]
About Last Night [Washington City Paper]