KNOXVILLE, Tenn. — I regret to report that my courtship of country singer Ella Langley has ended before it began, after she rejected the concept of dating me with the kind of efficiency usually reserved for euthanizing a browser tab.

I approached with confidence.

Good posture.

Freshly cleaned whiskers.

Half a rotisserie chicken.

The full package.

“Ella,” I asked, “how many likes would it take for you to go on a date with me?”

She hit me with:

“Not enough in the world.”

Jesus Christ.

Ma’am, I asked for a date, not a drone strike.

I have been sprayed with hoses behind seafood restaurants and somehow this hurt more.

For several seconds, I simply stood there holding my chicken like a tiny divorced father outside a Cracker Barrel.

Then survival instinct kicked in.

“I was asking for content,” I said.

Nobody bought it.

Not security.

Not Ella.

Not the chicken.

The chicken had already begun emotionally distancing itself.

I attempted to recover by explaining what I bring to the table.

Stable housing.

A dumpster.

Steady employment.

Whatever this website is.

Excellent pest control.

Natural night vision.

And a face women have historically described as:

“Please get that thing away from me.”

Apparently country stars have standards now.

I then offered dinner.

Not some overpriced Nashville steakhouse, either.

A true Baltimore experience.

One milk crate.

Two stolen crab cakes.

Moonlight reflecting beautifully off the Inner Harbor runoff.

Romance.

She remained unmoved.

So I escalated.

“I have a truck.”

Technically false.

But there is a Ford F-150 behind the Royal Farms that I have slept under enough times to establish an emotional connection.

“I own property.”

Also disputed.

But I have openly occupied one section of alley for years and will be speaking with an attorney about squatter’s rights as soon as I find one willing to accept sardines.

Still nothing.

At this point, I began listing my relationship strengths.

I don’t send “good morning” texts.

I don’t ask where you are.

I disappear for 72 hours and return covered in mysterious substances.

I have no interest in meeting your parents.

And if an argument becomes uncomfortable, I simply climb a fence and become legally inaccessible.

That is not toxicity.

That is emotional independence.

Her loss.

Probably.

My final attempt involved singing.

That was a mistake.

I performed six seconds of what I believed was “You Look Like You Love Me” before security started moving with purpose.

I immediately switched to “Free Bird.”

This did not help.

I was then informed that my backstage access had been revoked.

Interesting claim.

You cannot revoke access I never had.

Checkmate.

Witnesses say I spent the next 25 minutes sitting under a pickup truck pretending none of this happened.

False.

I was conducting post-interview analysis.

Professional journalists call it licking your ass in silence.

I am now announcing that Ella Langley and I have mutually agreed not to pursue a relationship.

She made the decision.

I am agreeing with it several hours later.

That makes it mutual.

My team asks that everyone respect my privacy while I heal.

My team is one raccoon named Gary who has already leaked screenshots.

Gary has been terminated.

He still lives here.

As for Ella, there are no hard feelings.

She is talented.

Successful.

Funny.

Beautiful.

And apparently unwilling to date a mangy Baltimore alley cat carrying poultry.

There will be no hit single: “Choosin’ Cat.”

Women today.

Impossible standards.

Anyway, if anyone needs me, I’ll be behind the dumpster updating my dating profile to:

“Journalist. Pilot. Property owner. Recently released back into the wild.”