Continuing on columns.

I'm thinking about sending in a column to PunktSe, the newspaper that has "nätkrönikor". In true Vicky Olesen-style, it's going to be about nothing special in particular. I'm seeing what reactions I get from it here in English (if any) and then I'll translate it and send it in.

"What's wrong with guys in Sweden? I refuse to be typically female about this and blame myself. Not this time.
What is wrong with guys in Sweden?
So you're out on a Friday night, you're having fun with your girlfriends, you're dressed up, made up, good to go. You're the hottest girl in the place, or you feel like it.
Exuding confidence and a bubbly, wonderful personality, the first hour or so is to have fun for yourself. Then you begin to look around for a suitable guy. The place isn't too bad at all - most of the guys are of a pretty good standard. But what is WRONG with them? Not a single one comes up and talks to you, no icebreaking fun pickup lines, nil attempts to strike up contact, not even a cliché little wink comes your way.
So you start worrying, wondering what you've done wrong (female reflex). You retire to the bathroom with one of your girls, complain a little, whinge a little. The inevitable conclusion - after making sure nothing's the matter with your reflection - is that you don't need guys to have fun. You're all set now, so, armed and rejuvenated with this conviction, you glide out onto the dancefloor again. This time around you last about half an hour. You're clocking zero approaches from the opposite sex. Your dance is now half-hearted, your mood down several notches under par. Maybe you'll go and get another drink...
It gets you happy for half an hour more, tops.
So you leave. What is wrong with the men?! You wonder if it's the Swedish rigidness. You think about the non-Swedish-looking guys. Their problem might be that they probably don't want to seem to forward and pushy, because that would be fulfilling the cultural stereotype of brashness. Riiiiight.
So you're home, after more musing. You scrutinise yourself in the mirror from top to toe. You replicate some of your dance moves, your smile. You suck in your tummy and shake your ass a bit more. And then it dawns on you:
You're so damn good-looking, it intimidated them.
So you go to sleep, peacefully marvelling at the world."

And yes, the anaphora is intended.