Good friends are all alike; every miserable friend is miserable in its own way.

They borrow your car. They screw your boyfriends. They're convinced you won't miss all that E.

My miserable friend Gary had no boundaries. "I really, really like John," I tell Gary the last time we go barhopping. "He could be the one, so I want to take it slow. I want to take the time to develop a relationship."

Gary nods frantically in agreement. Half an hour later he's still nodding, but this time he's in his car and John's dick is in his mouth.

My miserable friend Honey wants to do me. Which, you know, is kind of understandable. I summarize all the relevant facts: she's supposedly a lesbian, I could not be more gay. When we go barhopping and I meet a man, I don't want her standing there with her fingers crossed saying, "Don't work out. Don't work out. Please God don't let it work out!" Still, I'm patient. "I'm not interested," I repeat. "There's no way."

"That's fine," she says. "I can handle it." And the next time we go out she "accidentally" leaves a razor blade in my car.

Me, I'm a miserable friend because I'm logical. I don't console. I don't comfort. When I hear about problems, I offer logic. I offer cold, hard answers.

See, there's far too many people dealing in fantasy, and I'm firmly rooted in the real world. If my friends build a castle in the air and then complain about the plumbing, I'm not going to play along. I'm not going to suggest using the powder room on an upper floor.

My friend Michael likes hot young Hispanics. Which, you know, isn't a problem if you're George Clooney, but Michael is fifty and poor. He watches Teen Mom to see what nice apartments look like. "What can I do to catch a hot Latin stud?" he asks me.

A good friend will say, "Just be yourself!" A good friend will say, "Don't look for him and he'll come to you!" Maybe that'll segue into thoughts about volunteer work, or exercise, or tips on how to dress well. Me, I'm not mincing words. I say, "Can you get a rope and chloroform?"

Luckily, being a good friend is no longer a good thing, at least in my neighborhood. "You're such a good friend!" always has undertones of, "I can't believe you actually picked up my dry cleaning!" and "Can you take my dog for a walk before you head home?" Everyone really wishes they could be a good friend, but they're making money and getting laid.

Still, I'm nostalgic. I've seen the ideal, and I'm aiming for it. I'm compromising. Now I meet misery with a few minutes of comfort -- but if the person keeps complaining, I'll swing straight back to the advice.

"I'm going to die single, aren't I?" says Maryanne.

"No!" I comfort. "Never." Pause. "You own a dog, right?"