To my Tinder Profile,
Some may call us dysfunctional. If they do, it’s all my fault. I only check in when I’m feeling particularly sad about my life. I only click your shameful, glowing flame when literally any type of love story is playing on the TV, or whenever my roommate has her acquired-via-Tinder-boyfriend over, or if the boy-space-friend I’ve always flirted with is talking about his girl-no space-friend instead of me. That’s not fair to you.
Currently, the most interesting part of you reads like this “Just trying to find a boy I can use to make it through my first winter.” Also included are: six pictures of me splayed out, smiling flirtily at the camera; my major; the fact that I’m from Santa Monica and now live in Boston (hence, first winter); a correction to my listed age (“19 not 20”); and my Instagram. You deserve better—you deserve more effort.
I stay home and complain about my lack of prospects when you’re sitting in my lap brimming with suggestions. I finally swipe through your plentiful offerings and respond ungrateful or unwilling or any other unexciting un-descriptive word. On the off chance I do let you set me up, I get bored within three messages and ghost completely. Your hard work deserves more appreciation than that.
You do so much for me. You even got me laid once! On my very first Tinder date, I went out with a man who asked if I’d ever been to the Main Street of my hometown, and then I spent some politely agonizing hours with him. You did that. You also found me someone who was willing to go on an honest-to-God date! He was sweet and not unattractive, but not as lovely his photos portrayed. But, he bought me fried rice and JP Licks on my second ever and most recent Tinder date. He even drove me home. It’s not your fault some boys know their angles. That’s just the nature of any online interaction these days. But it was you that fed me that uneventful night.
My Hinge profile has basically the same photos and only slightly different information. Info like a Two Truths and a Lie that reads like this, “I’ve moved 15 times, I can lick my elbow, I put ranch on everything.” Or the all important question: “What is your dream dog?” My height, voting party, hometown, smoking/drinking/children habits are also all included. Hinge is geared towards getting me more dates, and it’s never done anything for me other than passive-aggressively remind me “It’s your turn!” Hinge doesn’t look out for my notification sanity like you do. You don’t even notify me when I have a message half the time, and you know that’s just how I like it.
So I guess, what I really want to say, as I write this in a sweater the same shade as your unnecessary, uncalled for, and under-loved red, is that I have let your potential go unrecognized all this time.
To make up for my previously unvoiced love for you, I’m committing to going on dates. I’m setting one up for next week as we speak. And after this one, where I will finally respect your unprecedented selections, I’ll go on many—all for the entertainment of others. There will be an untried-and-untrue blind date, a few totally-absolutely-un-forced meet cutes, and maybe even a Tinder-turned-game show, where I could explain my appreciation to you out loud and uninhibited by text.
Too Long; Didn’t Read:
You, my dear, understanding, Tinder profile, and all the unclaimed boys in Boston, are under-used no longer. Check back for the outcome of my not-unwilling self humiliation.