I hate dating.
It’s an inverse Sophie’s Choice really, determining which of the two stages are more painful. There’s the actual dates themselves, volleys of uninteresting small talk queries occasionally pierced by idle observations on the food/beverage or other customers surrounding you. At worst, it’s a couple hours of your life you’ll never get back that serve only to push you further down the foxhole of sweet, sweet permanent solitude; at best, you walk away with a faint optimism about a second date—an optimism that, deep down inside, you know will be crushed in due time by the revelation of their functional alcoholism or Beanie Baby collection.
Before that shitfest, though, is the process of finding a date. We’re all busy. Well, not me. I just finished a book and I’m still unemployed and between you and me I do not have shit to do right now…but everyone else, you’re busy. If you’re over the age of thirty, your presence at the bar throwing out the vibe is beginning to look suspect, and the “American Dream” of working 50 hours a week to barely pay your bills doesn’t leave you much time to pursue interests and meet potential mates throughout the week.
So, we turn to online platforms. At one end, we have eHarmony, a service that ostensibly decodes your soul mathematically and tells you who Jesus personally wants you to be with; at the other end we have Tinder, a service that essentially asks you “do you want to fuck this person?” and waits for your reply.
It’s too tempting to not play around with, though. Instant feedback, guilty pleasure, thumb exercise… it’s all there. Some people, though. Some people…just don’t seem to understand how this Tinder thing works. Or, perhaps, they understand it all too well. Either way, they provide laughable interruptions from the swipe-fest that is Tinder. This is Shit That Needs to Stop: Tinder.