I recently got an unsolicited message on Instagram from a guy who claimed to have matched with me on Hinge in 2019. The DM is longer than a full-screen iPhone 11. A lot of effort has obviously been put into the crafting of this charming message.
He lists out his top-line stats.
39 years old.
Work as [insert impressive job title].
Never married, no kids.
Furthermore, upon investigation of your digital content, I’d like to take this opportunity to put in an application for a second chance at a date.
The message ends with: I hope…
Those first few months together were fiery. Just like the flame below the wok that night.
He was holding two large zucchinis, one in each hand, with a seductive smile on his face. “I’m going to cook for you.”
I watched him chop the zucchini. The chunks were quite large. Some perhaps too large to fit comfortably in my mouth.
He opened a can of black beans. I waited for him to drain the beans, to watch the silky black water run clear. He didn’t.
He added water to the wok. No oil. No garlic. No spices.
I recently wrote an article about a bad date that, to my total surprise, went viral. It was nice that other people appreciated the ironies of dating.
But like anything that goes viral, it also riled a few people up. Well, men.
For these men, the article only exaggerated my own flaws. Because as the man I went on a date with explained, there’s a lot wrong with us women in our thirties.
The comments section became like the irony of the irony.
In the many, many, many years of His existence, God had never been down to earth. Until a few months ago. God had been feeling pretty flat and had heard humans speak of this thing called “mental health” and “getting help” and He thought to Himself, “Well, it can’t hurt.”
God found a solitary loner of a man, Dave, and inhabited his body once a week to see Doctor Jane. Doctor Jane had diagnosed Him with Narcissistic Personality Disorder.
“I think I’m lonely,” God said to Doctor Jane one day.
Doctor Jane nodded, “You claim to have created love, yet…
Let’s get up-to-date on my last seven days on dating apps, so I can demonstrate to you exactly what’s wrong with men on dating apps.
Bear with me because it’s gonna be like that Craig David song “7 Days” except that, unfortunately, I was not making love by Wednesday. Or Thursday or Friday or Saturday.
Oh, but I did chill on Sunday. Because I decided I would die alone instead.
I decided I would die alone instead.
I’m so chilled dying alone.
Let’s start with the guy who I met for a first date at the hardware store. …
A few weeks ago, on a whim, I quit my job. I woke up one Monday and thought, “Nah.”
Since I resigned, people have been interrogating me. They think I must have been headhunted by an even better company for more money. Which I haven’t. I give them the usual, “Oh, you know, I want to travel.” Or, “I need a break.” Or, “I’m thinking about a career change.”
When I told my boss, he was stunned. He had just given me a pay rise, for Pete’s sake! A pay rise!!! …
We appreciate you choosing me to go on a date with. To help us improve, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your experiences with me. It’ll only take a minute and will help us make me a more desirable human.
Your name: John
How did we meet? On Hinge. You commented on a photo of me at the beach with “lol whaaaaaaat”.
How would you rate the overall quality of the conversation?
Single & not ready to mingle. Happily lonely. Emotionally unavailable. Manifesting the life no one wants. I use humour to avoid all feelings.