As each month passes, my kind becomes increasingly obsolete, a species on the verge of extinction. Our numbers dwindle, slowly at first and then more quickly towards the end, an insidious but expected decline, until, all of a sudden, you look around and you’re the only one left, the lone surviving cockroach after the asteroid strikes. Yes, that’s me. The last single girl in the room. The incidental holdout. The persistent proverbial roach.