My Tinder Day
An example of how my brain works on Tinder.
Adds funny photo.
Removes photo. Men don’t want to see your entire face in that pose.
Adds sexy photo. Sexy is good. Sexy people have sex. Sex is that thing you did once, remember?
Examines sexy photo carefully. Renames it drunk as fuck photo.
Shouts “WHY IS THIS MY FACE?” at no one.
Adds least offensive photo and sighs.
Search criteria.
OK, so if you’re 38 then probably 25-48?
No wait, 25 is too young, you’re not fucking paying for everything and being his mum taxi.
Right, 30-48. But then he’ll be 32 when you turn 40. FORTY. FUCKING FORTY. YOU ARE GOING TO BE FORTY.
FINE. 35-48? But 48? He’ll be 60 and you’ll still be pretending that you’re never turning forty.
FUCK THIS. *logs off*
Ten minutes later…
Right. 35-45. Within 10 miles. Ten miles is fine for dating and late night emergency sex.
Swipe left…swipe left……….oooh he’s handsome. Facial hair – check…funny profile – check! likes being outside…oh fuck off.
Swipe left…swipe left..swipeleftswipeleftswipeleftswipeleft…WHY IS EVERYONE HANGING OFF A WALL? WHY DO YOU HAVE YOUR KIDS IN THE PICTURE? WHY ARE MEN SO….ooh he’s nice! He hasn’t written anything. He’s either really dull or lazy. I’m not sleeping with him ever.
Twelve hours later.
*search criteria has now changed to 20-109 within THE EARTH*
Why has no one super-liked me? I am super-likeable as fuck.
*gets super-liked BY A 62 YEAR OLD.*
swipe left….HOLD THE PHONE. Wow, he’s totally out of my league. Imma swipe him and ask if I can stand beside him at some point during my life.
YOU MATCHED WITH HOT GUY. You are so good at this.
*tells everyone on Twitter. No one cares*
Writes a message. Mentions his hair and probably something about Die Hard or Sharpies, neither of which he has referenced in his profile.
Gets unmatched.
Starts again.
