Full disclosure: my goal at the end of this list is to make you want to punch something. The wall. Your laptop. The jackass buying last-minute flowers at the supermarket for his girlfriend and his cute coworker. I want you to get so angry that your body becomes a vessel fueled by the universal hatred of single people everywhere, threatening to spill forth from your fingers into the face of the next fat baby angel you see, and then — when you don’t think you can take anymore — you’ll just . . . go to a bar.