If you Google “single in Los Angeles,” the algorithm will try to convince you that you’re stranded in a romantic desert. You’ll get think pieces about “flaky creatives,” the “Westside vs. Eastside divide,” and the dreaded “situationship.”

Here’s the secret: half those people are also single. The other half are fighting about valet tickets.

Now? I get it.

Let’s clear the air immediately.

But I’ve been single in this city for three years now—long enough to delete the apps twice, long enough to drive from Silver Lake to Manhattan Beach for a first date that lasted forty-five minutes, and long enough to realize that everyone is asking the wrong question.