Is This It?

I’ve read plenty of “inspirational” quotes telling me things like, “If it’s not okay it’s not the end” and “There’s no such thing as a true ending” and “Everything must come to an end sometime.” A lot of these sayings contradict each other but that doesn’t stop girlie girls from putting the words on pretty a background and posting them to their Instagrams.

Here’s my problem: I hate endings. I don’t know how to handle them. I very rarely even say goodbye to anyone. I always end the dinner or the drinks or the party by saying something like, “See you next week.” I never simply say, “Goodbye.”

I can’t handle the permanence of The End.

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Shiver Me Tinders

Consider this a sidetrack from the usual Ok Cupid fodder. 

Before I became a member of the aforementioned site of horror, I tried out an app called Tinder. Let me Google that for you in case you aren’t familiar with it. 

One lucky man became my match and proceeded to message me. He seemed nice and smart enough to warrant a response. Sick of Tinder (it’s seriously a horrible hole to fall into), I gave this dude my number and deleted the app for good. After a few texts back and forth, he decided he wanted to meet me. 

But I realized something. I had no idea what this kid’s face looked like. Looking back, I’d realized he only had photos from far away or with other people. Who was this mystery person? He claimed to be 6’4 (you all know by now that I go weak at the knees for a man who stands that tall) and Hungarian-American. But honestly, I couldn’t meet the kid without knowing what his face looked like.

When I told him this, he proceeded to send me a photo of himself in a cow costume. Yes, really. Was his face in it? Barely. All I could see were udders. Udderly distressed, I finagled his last name out of him. Don’t ask me how. After a thorough Facebook search I’d found him. And I realized why he was so private about his facial features. While this guy really was 6’4, his nose was about 5’10. His stretched out face was hard to ignore. And while I was able to look past the strange schnoz and the obvious embarrassment this guy had over his looks, I could not look past how weird he got after a few more texts.

He decided he wanted to come to a party at my house. He started typing in paragraphs. Every text ended with a period. I began to feel like I was talking to a well-written book that wanted to stalk me down and prey on me. I told the guy that I was uncomfortable and no longer wanted to meet up. He said I was a waste of time and to never lead someone on again. 

Truth is, I’d only texted him a handful of times compared to the many, many messages that he’d send me. Never led you on, bro. Just got scared that you were gonna snort me up your giant nose like Rob Ford would snort a Canadian crack rock. In other words, I began to fear for my life. Kind of. I also feared his awkward demeanor and stalker tendencies. 

This experience taught me one thing: If you’re going to Tinder, only swipe right on those who have faces. Or just don’t swipe right at all. Go outside or something instead. You’re less likely to die.

My first sex request. Considering my lack of a love life and therefore my lack of physical contact lately, maybe I should’ve said yes and claimed it as my way of supporting our troops.


Leigh seemed too perfect. A 6 foot 4 mountain man, Leigh was studying for his masters in neuroscience at USC. I was immediately smitten. After a few messages about nature and mountains we’ve climbed, Leigh asked me to coffee. I put on makeup for the event. That’s a big deal for me. 

We chatted for a couple hours. He didn’t buy my coffee. Is that awkward? Should I expect guys to do that? Whatever.

I got in the car to drive home and was pretty sure I’d fallen in love. I was planning our wedding in my head as I sped back toward West Hollywood. I told my roommate that I’d finally had the perfect date.

Clearly, Leigh didn’t feel that way. I texted him to thank him for the date. No response. A few days later, I asked him if he wanted to go to a concert at a venue we both wanted to check out. No answer. This bastard was ghosting me (ghosting: the act of completely disappearing after a date). I couldn’t believe it. I had already married him in my head and now I’m going through an imaginary divorce. In case you’re wondering why I was so into Leigh after one meeting and so devastated to be ghosted, here’s his photo.

Rejection aside, I’d still jump him. Oooooof.

Presented without further comment.


Patrick was one of the first guys I messaged with who seemed really quirky and fun. We wrote to each other for a couple weeks before we decided to meet for drinks. Topics ranged from siamese twins to the arts. I was actually excited to meet him. Plus, his photo wasn’t so bad either. (Check the proof below).

Truth be told, I shouldn’t have fallen for that Instagram filter. When I went to meet Patrick for drinks, I was excited to see that he was tall and wearing a flannel. I was not excited to hug him hello and feel his man-boobs against my body. Mean? Yes. But also very surprising. Have you ever been caught off guard like that? I hadn’t. He had to have been an A-cup. 

Increasingly disinterested in my date, I made friends with an older and married gay couple at the bar. They fed me a marshmallow and thought I was so charming. Patrick was impressed. I wanted to take both of these gray-haired gay men home with me. This is just further proof that I am a homosexual male. 

I bought a drink and we talked. Mostly about siamese twins. Again. He seems quite fascinated. I couldn’t really carry a conversation about conjoined babies past what I’d already said in our online messaging, so I bid him adieu after an appropriate amount of time (as in, “I gave him a chance but now I need to say goodbye to Patrick and his girlish rack”). 

I never heard from Patrick again. I was okay with that. That is, until he texted me three weeks later to ask if I got home safely. Yes, really. I could have died on the way home and he wouldn’t have known. I told him this. He said, “Yeah, I guess I turned the three-day rule into the three-week rule.” Sucks, man.

A False Sense of Security

Below is the first message I’d ever received during this ongoing experiment. While I wasn’t attracted to this young gent, as his confidence level was minimal and he used too many emoticons, his kind message made me think, “Wow! Men aren’t so bad after all.” The message was far too long but at least this dude is complimentary! I am the bitch here, though. I didn’t give him a chance. Don’t hate me.

The Art of the Profile

Let’s be honest here: I first moved to LA in July 2013 and at that point, never in my entire life had I been on a “real” date. Despite one longterm relationship during college and a handful of messy hook-ups, no one had ever bothered to ask me out and tell me I’m pretty. So when I moved to the golden coast, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I’d go on some dates with some real-life men and I’d maybe like it. And if I didn’t like it, I’d buy a goldfish to keep me company in my spinsterhood. 

When it came to making my profile, I decided to go with a classic approach. That is, I’d be myself but not TOO much of myself. Because I am crazy and no one needed to know that. It had to be funny but not too offensive and genuine but not too nice. Because I am not a nice person. This, however, was the easy part. I was always a writer and I’m very self-centered so I was always a writer who wrote about myself. The complicated part of creating an online dating profile is selecting the perfect photo. 

Photos are all about two things: show men that 1) you’re cute and 2) fit. That’s really all they seem to care about. I just had to prove to these online prowlers that I don’t look like the offspring of Snooki and Fat Albert. Luckily I don’t. At least on a good day. Below are the photos I included in my profile.

Caption: “Ugh, selfies. But seriously it was an amazing hair day.”

Caption: “This isn’t even my dog. And I’m not even a USC fan.”

Caption: “Madrid, te amo”

Great captions, am I right? And thus, the journey began.


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