Just to be clear: I have absolutely no control over that last little paragraph that appears below my column each week.

To be more specific: Despite an advertisement in my bio line last week, there is not actually a “www.watchjanagetiton.com” web site. I am not even on thefacebook.com. Why in the world would I have a personal porn Web site?

My editors were making a joke. Get it? HA Ha ha h — hm.

I am flattered that people think I am crazy enough to webcast my sexual conquests. I am distressed that the response to my last column allows me to reach only one conclusion: the number of people who are interested in watching me have sex is far greater than the number of people who are interested in actually having sex with me.

Well, I would say my interpersonal and professional prospects look promising!

Along with IMF policy and world peace, I might as well tell you some other areas I have absolutely no control over.

1.) The Female Population’s Abusive Relationship with Tasti-D-Lite

Tasti-D-Lite is the culinary manifestation of self-loathing. This frozen dessert is NOT love in a cup — it is actually a calorie-free, cholesterol-free, fat-free, taste-free, soul-sucking-serving of whipped self-hatred. You know it. I know it. The girl walking hurriedly with her medium-sized cup of vanilla-chocolate swirl — on her way to throw it all back up — knows it too.

I, personally, am reenacting the destructive patterns of my last relationship through my trifling affair with Tasti-D-Lite. I tell myself it can not be as unsatisfying as I remember. I go back. I actually make a concerted effort to lower my expectations and without fail, every single time … I am profoundly disappointed. It is simply something to do that engages both my hands and mouth. My choices are smoking cigarettes, suckin-D or Tasti-D. And those first two supposedly cause cancer … so really, I have no choice. Even though I actually feel a piece of my spirit turn cold and die with each spoonful, I have no control over my compulsion. I am out of options.

2.) Construction on Trumbull College = Commotion = Crazy

Not like, funny ha-ha-quirky crazy, but out-my-damn-mind-intervention-impending crazy.

I did not realize that Yale’s renovation plans for Trumbull College included the complete ‘remodeling’ of my sanity. Through excessive noise pollution and sleep deprivation, the construction across from my Elm Street window is successfully eroding the few remaining threads of wellness that tether me to reality. It is to the point where I believe a man unrelated to the renovation stands directly outside my window at 7:30 a.m. jack hammering, debris dropping, power blasting, generator humming, buzz sawing, pot banging sirenblaring laughingmaniacallyjustcan’tmakeitstop! Noise noise everywhere and my sanity did sink. Noise noise everywhere and not a single wink.

People think I choose to wander aimlessly outside, constantly in aviators and the same outfit I was wearing yesterday and the day before that, humming along to songs that are not actually playing on my iPod. I have no control over it. There is a man outside my window with a jackhammer. I am losing my mind.

3. The Length of Your Skirt, The Public Baring of Your Box

I am not a hater. Really. I am simply wondering if I inadvertently deleted the e-mail that institutionally recognized Thursday through Saturday as campus wide denim-mini-skirt-and-clear-heel-ho-days. The e-mail must have declared that on the seventh day, we would rest wearing Juicy sweatpants with thong lines and flip flops.

Maybe you have the financial means to own an article of clothing that can be simultaneously described as both low slung and micro-cut?

It comes down to this: if you are one of the many women rocking a denim wrist-band-that-happens-to-fit-over-your-ass please stop flashing me your box. As the official captain of Yale’s Varsity Constantly-Commando Team, it is my duty to put a stop this Paris-Hilton-like-pube/p***y publicity. We stood idly by all through the ass-crack-epidemic-years. But this is too much. This type of exposure requires consent. I may not control your box’s right to blow in the breeze under your micro-mini, but I can ask you to keep your birth canal out of my sight line.

4. Your Sinking Suspicion/Outright Accusation that I am Being Condescending.

I am not being condescending. At least, I do not think I am. Well, it’s not like I am purposefully trying to be. My father (a righteous brown man) once said something along the lines of,

“When you’re condescending, you think you’re better than other people. And I don’t feel that way. I don’t think I’m better than most people … I know I am better than most people.”

HA! Clearly he was kidding — but all the same my mother broke out the-in-case-of-emergency-rosary that all ex-Catholics have hidden and prayed for a plague of humility to descend upon his soul. What can I say? I am my father’s daughter through and through. I would much rather cope with my insecurities through laughter than tears. I am the first to admit that I am nothing short of a hot mess. So instead of thinking I’m playing games or being a snide, patronizing wench — visualize the crystal waters of sarcasm and jump on in. Trust me, the irony is warm.

5. Things That Other People Believe, Say and then Print [on the front page of the NY Times on Tuesday]

Hey Mom, I affirm you. Hey stay-at-home-parents, I validate your choice. Um, now would you mind taking your Tod’s driving moccasin off my throat? Because it’s making it a little hard for me to breathe. Besides, you might find it a whole lot easier to suffocate me with the status quo if you just step back and full on smother me with that 700-thread-count-pillow-stuffed-with-100%-upper-middle-class-perpetuated priviledge.

Oh come now, I am overreacting. You know what? Now that I think about it, this column is just fine the way it is. I could write more? But that is just not where my priorities are right now. Besides, I have got my work cut out for me if I am going to dig myself any deeper into the construct of normative gender roles. Bye! Good luck with life!

Hmmm, I wonder if Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf are buried down here.

Jana Sikdar’s actual porn site is www.hardcoreindalianjob.com. Seriously. Trust us this time.