From Chapter Twelve

If Benjamin Franklin was right—if the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results—then my efforts at Internet dating were clearly indicative of madness.

Blame it on love. Love can do that to you—it can make you nuts.

Actually, I take that back. It’s not love that makes people nuts. It’s the absence of love. It’s the fear of losing love. And in my case—under Franklin’s definition—it was the search for love, a search for something so reputedly desirable that I willingly and repeatedly endured a process that any empiricist would conclude was futile.

Then again, when did Benjamin Franklin become an expert on love? Sure, he knew a thing or two about democracy, and apparently he was pretty good with a kite, but one needn’t read more than a page or two of Poor Richard’s Almanac to realize that Franklin was no Nicholas Sparks. Maybe, when it comes to searching for love, continuing the quest despite repeated failure is not a sign of insanity. Maybe, instead, one who quixotically presses on in pursuit of love is more akin to the determined lottery player, the one who bets on the same numbers week after week, aware that the odds are long, but aware, too, that to have any chance at winning, one must keep on placing the bet. Is the lottery player optimistic? Of course. Foolishly so? Perhaps. But insane? No.