Well here I am, single again. No it’s cool, I’m okay, unfurrow your brows. Fortunately for all of us, I’m slowly but surely moving out of the “crying in line at the bank” phase and progressing into the “tequila will never leave me” part of the grieving process. Oh, and I’ve made myself a Tinder account. Admit it ladies, there’s honestly nothing more gruesomely satisfying than rating a man based on four low-qual photos of him at his senior prom and two lines of poorly-constructed self-reflection. Especially when one certain member of his species has Maced your heart in the face. Or perhaps you’re not in some sort of emotional spiral at all, you are a self-respecting, responsible young lady out here looking for love on a handheld device. More power to you. Future spinsters and social goddesses alike, I have compiled for us all a quick and easy guide to navigating the fuckboy hellscape that is Tinder. Enjoy.
- The Mysteryman: He has no bio, no Spotify artists, no Instagram, and two blurry pics of him on a boat. Who are you? A celebrity? A murderer? Why am I not good enough to know more? What secrets lurk behind those I-can’t-tell-what-color-they-are eyes? I’m not here to be titillated. LEFT.
- The NBA Star: 6’7!!! his bio boldly proclaims, usually accompanied by sides dishes such as “baller 4 life” or “find me on the courts” or my personal favorite “the ballin grind never stops,” all of course peppered with emojis galore. Now I’m not one to discriminate in terms of distance to the ground, but those typing thumbs most often prove to be fibbers when you meet up and he’s a healthy 5’11 and ¾. 8 inches of trust, completely down the drain. LEFT.
- The RISD Romancer: Scarf aficionado. Either a member of Team Thick Framed Glasses or Team Thin Framed and most definitely DOES have an opinion. Bio reads like a Radiohead song list. Pics look like something out of Bella Swan’s wet dreams. Usually looks like you might be able to take him in a fight. Swipe RIGHT if you like being told your poetry is “Kafka-esque, yet heavy-handed” or LEFT if you can’t quite muster the ability to give a flying fuck.
- The Casual Dog-Lover: He’s got a German shepard or a corgi or something else totally intoxicating and a big ole smile. They’re camping, they’re swimming, and you’re like “fuck I wanna either have that dog or BE that dog.” Give in, girl. Oxytocin never hurt nobody. RIGHT.
- The Creepy Dog-Lover: This one is slightly harder to detect. He’s got a dog, but it’s a puppy (rebound pet? Mid life crisis creature?) and he’s holding it like a can of Natty Light in a frat party: gently, but not too gently, cause he’s a MAN. In one photo, he’s letting it lick his face, the light gone from his eyes. Bio reads: “come pet my puppy” or worse. What kind of sick creep uses a lil pupper to achieve sexual prowess?? HARD LEFT.
- The Woman-Approved: Pics are all or most of the following: women with him at bars, women with him on boats (bikini-clad), women posing next to him at froyo, or the supreme shot of two women kissing either of his cheeks. See, women LIKE him. Almost as much as he likes them. They like him so much they take tons of pics with him, which he really wants to show you, because as his bio boasts, he’s a “feminist.” Swipe RIGHT if you like being called a “bold woman” and LEFT if you don’t desperately need attention like I do.
- The Stoner Boner: Literally the first impression this man would like you to have of him is that he smokes weed. First pic: French inhale, bonus points if accompanied by a tasteful middle finger. Second pic: him caressing a bong like a phallic holy grail. Actual bio of a human male I met on Tinder: “sit on my face while you smoke a blunt and I’ll do hits right out ya p***y.” “Class” to this person is just something he didn’t go to in high school. Chances are if you date him, you’ll get ash on all your clothes and have to explain how the human respiratory system actually works. LEFT (or RIGHT if free weed appeals to you, you do you girl).
All in all, Tinder has brought many a lonely pair of swiping thumbs together, to fumble around in the dark on a Monday night or awkwardly avoid eye contact over sweating vessels of bubble tea. Or sometimes, every once in awhile, create something sacred and beautiful like love. But honestly, it’s a big fat forehead-W “whatever” because my horde of bitter women and I will continue to find solace and validation in the anonymity of mathematically-calculated compatibility. Idk, maybe I’ll try Bumble.
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