Love is in the air. I can smell it.

Or maybe that is burning juniper and chico bushes from the national forest as it lights up the night sky just east of my house.

Either way, it is time to evaluate why it is some girls just can’t find love, or Mr. Right, or both.

That’s right, I said girls. The women know what they are doing.

The girls are the ones from 18-25 that go out partying three or four nights a week, have menial jobs that they hang onto until Mr. Right comes around to save them, and think clothes and drinking are more important than paying for trivial things like health insurance, gas, food, and anything mommy or daddy can cover while they “find themselves.” These girls usually have that branding that makes finding that perfect guy almost impossible — the tramp stamp.

There are no two identical tramp stamps in the world. I should know; I’ve checked them all. Girls have no problem showing them off. It’s like a rite of passage nowadays. 

Here where I live, there were about a half-dozen tramp stamps at the pool. Too bad they were all under 16 years old. I hope they like “Juicy” and snake eyes tatted on their backs for the rest of time.

These markings usually fall under a handful of categories:

Words. “Juicy,” “Lucky,” <your name here> are some of the more popular words.

I personally love the name as a tramp stamp. Makes it easier to confuse her by calling her by name and reminding her of the time we hooked up at the club last spring. Enough vague details and she will spend the rest of the week trying to recall the drunken romp with the live armadillos and motor oil in Tiger Stadium.

The “juicy” girl will one day have to explain why her back is juicy to her five-year-old daughter. 

Chinese letters. Do you speak Chinese? Can you point to China on the map? Then how the hell do you know what is imprinted for all time on your back?

Sure, the Chinese alphabet is fascinating, with the brush strokes and artistry, but what does it really mean? As far as I am concerned, it doesn’t read “hope” and “peace,” but “Thank you for coming; have a nice day,” “easy and pleasing,” “two-drink minimum,” “OSHA — 2 riders max,” or my favorite: “If you liked the service, tell your friends. If not, tell me.”

Animals. I think this is really the only acceptable tramp stamp if you are looking for a soul mate instead of ex-husband #1. Sure, it’s a tramp stamp, but it screams “Daddy bought this for me,” “I’m too conservative to go wild with Chinese lettering,” or “I’m not a slut, but I wanted to get in that cool sorority.” You hardly seem like a threat and usually have the God-given sense to hide your tat most of the time from the public eye. 

You just keep telling yourself how unique you are with your special tattoo … just like everyone else. You successfully branded yourself like a cow with a badge of promiscuity on the small of your back.

As you bounce from bad relationship to bad relationship, the good guys end up with women who don’t need to brand themselves for guys to know they’re good catches.

After all, you trusted your back to a guy with a tattoo of a swastika on the side of his head, assuming he knows all 47,035 Chinese logograms.

I know us guys are no better with our tattoo choices, but then again, the ones with the trashy tattoos showing though their wifebeaters seem to attract you more than free-drink Thursdays or free tanning.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out how you girls think trashy tats, wifebeater, and crappy car with sound system worth more than the car just screams “able to support me for the rest of my life in a lifestyle similar to The Real Housewives of New York City.” I know some guys like that who are the sweetest, most nurturing in the world, but they are as rare as Gulf shrimp.

It’s just fun to watch you girls bitch about not finding Mr. Right, but date nothing but Mr. Right Now and Mr. Cool Looking. 

My advice, girls: Cover up the tramp stamp and learn to look cute without showing off all the skin. Leave something to the imagination.

Nothing looks hotter on my wife than blue jeans, sandals, T-shirt, and hair up in a ponytail. She looks like my partner in life, not some easy piece of ass you kick out of the house in the morning. 

And date the quiet ones, girls. They might not look as hot as the white trash you lust over at the bars, but looks are fleeting, beauty fades, but dumbass lasts forever. The quiet, dorky guys are the real Mr. Rights.

I just hope you find out before you end up marrying some moron that doesn’t know the difference between Krakatoa and Mt. Vesuvius, or thinks that people at 7,500-foot elevation in a desert need flood insurance.