Notes on Tinder

I get bored with “Hi”s and “How are you”s. But I do like the short-lived gratification of liking someone who likes me back. Is that sad?

Lately I’ve been walking around paranoid, as if all the men in this city know about my singlehood, my availability, like it’s some kind of shame. The only reason I stay is a somewhat complicit knowledge of their shame: this town is small enough that half of these faces are familiar. I know their wives, some are new fathers, that guy definitely has not stepped on the grounds of MIT let alone graduated from there.

I like the randoms. The slightly weird and off kilter. The ones that call out how slim the pickins are and interweave correctly spelled three syllable words with unexpectedly curt four letter ones. Make me clutch my pearls. Be interesting not just interested. Improvise. Don’t tell me I’m beautiful. I know that. Well, not always, but when that’s the first thing you say to me having never even met me, it is suspect. Believe it or not, we are not all here for one thing. Or maybe we are.

It scares me how comfortable I am in this world. How witty and fearless and uncompromising. I came because I wanted to try something different, only to discover men are the same virtually as in reality: my english is good so I must not be from here, why would a person with my academic credentials need this?, where do I live and can you come over to fuck me. I stay because I need to constantly remind myself that men are the same virtually, as in reality, as they are everywhere.


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