On Friday night, I found myself in a sharing circle.  Actually, it was a birthday party.  We happened to be sitting in a circle and sharing.  It was much more fun than it may sound.  We had pizza. At some point, the circle splintered into smaller groups.  I talked to an artist for a while; we gabbed about nonprofits, art, all sorts of stuff.  A few feet away, three guys and one girl talked about online dating.  They shared a few horror stories, whipped out their cell phones that had a mobile dating app installed.  Compared profiles, checked to see if anyone interesting was in the area. As they talked, the three guys, in subtle and less subtle ways, vyed for the one girl’s attention.  Subtle shifts in body position, laughing a little too loudly, invitations to future cultural events.  She was attractive, can’t blame the guys.  Anyway, I watched all this happening and realized at some point that I was happier talking about a van that doubles as a pinhole camera (awesome!) than about dating. A year ago, I might have participated in the dating story-share.  Hell, that was kind of my thing.  I’d go to parties and people would be all, like, “Hey, Kass, tell us about that time you did that thing with that girl that involved the sex!”  And I’d tell tales, sometimes a bit grotesque, about various misadventures, the lengths to which I may have gone to grab a few minutes of empty pleasure, moments of unexpected vulnerability in the midst of tawdry assignations.  I’d cloak myself in these stories, assuming the identity of the weathered, bitter veteran of the Dating Wars, holding myself up as an example of singlehood in LA.  Assuming that folks were looking for a...