After last week’s column, I received the best thing a guy can ask for without a wad of cash or being forced to cuddle after: fan mail.

It was great. I walked into my room, opened up my laptop, and there it was on my computer screen: a message calling me ‘the male Carrie Bradshaw.’

I couldn’t believe it. There, in simple English, were four words comparing me to my childhood idol, the main character from ‘Sex and the City.’ Ecstatic, I knew I had to round up the gang for a night of cosmos and manicures.

We all met up that night at the newest posh spot on Marshall Street. At the table were my three hetero life-mates: Abram, my uber-successful workaholic roommate with a domineering personality and a biting sarcastic wit; Josh, the wholesome brunette who just wants to be loved; and Neph, the pear-shaped nymphomaniac.

As the night wore on, the four of us discussed everything from shoes to clothes to my topic du jour:

‘Do you guys ever think we’ll find true love?’ I asked.

Puzzled, my bro-mates looked at each other and then back at me.

‘Who needs true love?’ Abram replied. ‘You’re fine on your own.’

‘Oh, that’s not true,’ said Josh with tears in his eyes. ‘You’ll find that special someone.’

‘Honey please,’ said Neph. ‘I find that special someone every night.’

Later that night I went back to my loft, popped open a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and played an Anne Hathaway movie on my flat screen.

After ruining my diet, I lit a cigarette and couldn’t help but wonder:

Will I ever find true love, or am I just a slut?

It’s hard to face the truth when it’s staring right at you, but then maybe it’s time to take off my Louis Vuitton sunglasses and open my eyes: If 18 really is the new 35, then I’m running out of time.

Sure, there’s three years left for us freshmen to find someone here and settle down, but once you reach that voting age, it’s hard to imagine the right choice showing up on your ballot. There are just too many factors working against us.

First, at an age when we’re too old for most high-schoolers and too young for most college kids, should we be looking for love at Chuck E. Cheese’s or Leisure World?

Also, in a place where the experienced are ‘sluts’ and the inexperienced are ‘prudes,’ how do we find that right balance between ‘you should go home now’ and ‘you should go to the clinic?’

Finally, even if we find ‘Mr. Right,’ will he ever be more satisfying than a pair of Manolo Blahniks?

Of course, we could cave in and marry the most convenient candidate, but if Barack Obama can succeed against the odds, then maybe yes, we can too.

Luckily, if all else fails, I’ve still got my three life-mates to pick me up when I’m down.

And if that fails, there’s always Anne Hathaway. Or soft-core porn. Like it makes a difference.

Danny Fersh is a freshman broadcast journalism major and the humor columnist. His columns appear every Wednesday and he would like to thank Sarah Jessica Parker, the tall redhead, the prissy brunette and the slutty blonde. He can be reached at dafersh@syr.edu