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Shit That Needs to Stop : Tinder

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.

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