i sucked up my pride, took a couple xanax, did a few breathing exercises, contemplated cancelling 12 separate times, and went on my first bumble date.

from the pictures in his dating profile, he looked cute. a little older, maybe a little more mature (one can hope). he looked athletic and interesting, not necessarily in that order. and apparently i thought i could tell that from 6 pictures.

i was excited to have a match. proud of myself for initiating conversation. making moves into the new me. here goes nothing.

we decided to meet at a bar, i got there first. i told the bartender that i was on my first bumble date, and if i looked like i would rather be eaten by a bear than be there - to then please pretend someone called looking for me in some made up emergency. she laughed sympathetically. "poor you - dating on apps. that sucks," she must have thought.

"peter" arrived. but if this was the same "peter" in the profile pictures, then "peter" had aged rapidly or had posted pictures from approximately 10 years earlier. "peter" looked not a blessed thing like his profile.

that's right folks - catfished.

i didn't want to be a superficial bitch, so i figured whatever - at least i'll get a drink out of this.

joke is on me.

"peter" had about the same amount of personality as a house plant. i tried to ask questions - family, friends, work, where are you from, what do you like to do, how many more questions should i ask you before i hope to be struck by lightening?

"peter" didn't ask me about myself. he just sat there, drinking a beer, and staring at me like he was wondering how he would fit my body in the back of his trunk.

finally, the bartender put the tab between us. after running the conversation for 45 torturous minutes (honestly, don’t know how i lasted even that long)  i expected he'd at least pay for my $8 beer.

he didn't reach for the check. barely looked at it. pretended it wasn’t right in front of his boring face.

did he think this was going well? that we should get another drink? is he delusional? is he a sociopath?

i had to get out of there. i texted my friend and made her pretend to be my boss demanding i fix a project that i had worked on during the day. she convincingly screamed into the phone. i have never loved her more.

i threw my credit card down. yup. i paid for the drinks. BOTH OF THE DRINKS.

i'm all for feminism but i mean - COME ON.

i ran out of that bar faster than he could say "nice to meet you" because i couldn't say the same about meeting him.

the bartender laughed behind me.

PSA for all gentleman on dating apps - put recent pictures up. i don't want to expect james marsden and get danny devito. k thanks bye.

i broke every cardinal rule of dating and went out with a lax bro.

famous last words.

we met because of his roommate, who was a friend of mine from college. i figured why not – if he’s friends with my friend then he can’t be that bad.

we went out a few times.  those times were usually one of those blurry nights where i wake up and feel like i got hit by a train, have no idea how or when i left the bar, and i have make up smeared all over my face like a raccoon who just barely survived darting across a highway. delightful. this is a start to a great little shitshow.

one of these particular nights, i’m lying in bed next to him and a girl bursts through the bedroom door. i think it must be a girl that one of his roommates brought home, who just got lost on her way to the their disgusting bathroom - likely traumatized by having to put the toilet seat down.

i was very, very, very wrong in my analysis of the situation.  this particular wandering girl was not one of the roommate’s girls, but rather the lax bro’s ex girlfriend. 

the look of disgust on her face when she saw me in his bed made me want to say – “oh, but actually be happy you’re not with him anymore, because he’s terrible in bed. didn’t enjoy a second of it. have a nice night!” and run roadrunner speed out the door. instead, i sat with the sheet up to my nose as they yelled at one another.

...can you two take this argument outside? i’d like to get dressed and go throw myself in front of a subway train.

i gathered my belongings and raced out of the apartment.  i never planned on speaking to him ever again (we are never getting back together...like. ever.).

that is, until i went out the next weekend – and realized my favorite nars lipstick was missing.

the color is discontinued. to not have this particular lipstick in my life would be just tragic, it would be outrageous to think i could ever even go out again without this shade of pink heaven on my lips. i had to get it back. 

i could picture it on his bedside table, all alone and not being used to its full, glorious pink potential. the poor thing was to bear witness to the argument of the lax bro and the batshit ex, and who knows what else that went on in that tiny room.

so i texted him. “hey – i think i left my lipstick at your place. could i come get it?” no answer.

days pass. my separation anxiety is through the roof. it’s DISCONTINUED. i may never see it ever again. the world’s smallest violin plays in the background. but i am determined. i must get it back.

i text him again. i call him. text. nothing. 

i can see my dignity just spiraling downward into a deep dark abyss every text i send and every response i don’t get. is losing my dignity worth getting this lipstick back?

yes, yes it is.

eventually, i gave up trying to go through him and had his roommate (my friend) get it back for me. i promised the lipstick i would never let a guy get in between us again. and i would never, ever leave it on the bedside table.

dignity – 0. nars lipstick - 1.

i met a guy at a collegiate marketing training – i know, why would someone as fabulous as me be there? unfortunately for me, i needed a job after college and thus had to attempt to network/learn things. he went to my school, but we had never met. we hit it off right away. we spent the weekend (in between dozing off during marketing lectures) getting to know one another.

i was really hoping he would reach out when we got back to school – but i left the weekend not expecting much (because i’ve played this game before, and lost).

he asked me to dinner when we got back to school. i was so excited. DINNER?! wait – you’re talking to me?! piranhas were eating away at my intestines.

i ended up at his apartment. everything was going smoothly, as i had planned out in my head. this little fantasy of some impromptu meeting – at a convention – falling in love at college. marriage. dogs. babies. white fences. daily pilates. all flashing before my eyes.

and all of a sudden – my dreams were smashed.

a screaming girl BURSTS into the room, asking me who the fuck i think i am (”a girl is no one” - thrones reference, for those who don’t know). she’s screaming at the guy i’m with, asking him how he could do this to her. he’s yelling back saying “WE BROKE UP SIX MONTHS AGO!” but this alarmingly furious girl is relentless. 

i put the sheet over my head and try to die quietly. he finally gets her out of the apartment, but she is throwing her body against his front door, screaming.

now what the fuck do i do. i can’t leave because i’m fairly sure i will be murdered horrifically by this girl who has no idea who i am.

i put my clothes back on, he’s telling me to ignore her.

IGNORE HER?! she came in here, screaming, wanted cut my head off, then kill you, and then leave and tell all her friends about it.

ignore her – yeah, sure it’s super easy to do that while she is hurling her body against your door. your apartment is about to not have a front door.

i’m arguing with him now – “can’t you just, bring her home? i’ll be gone when you get back.”

SMASH – the sound of broken glass.

she threw a fucking ROCK through his window. it landed on the floor between us (i shit you not). we stared at it, then at each other.

he called the cops. she was still body-slamming the door, probably had another rock in hand ready to go.

i had to give a statement – “yes, mr. officer sir, she did throw a rock through the window. yes it was seemingly unprovoked (but was it?). yes i am starting to feel like the crazy one.”

the police left, i got ready to leave. and by leave i mean run like a bat out of hell from that apartment.

“wait,” he said, “don’t you want to keep fooling around?”

let me count the things i’d rather do than get back in bed with you:

sleep with donald trump.

marry ted bundy.

die alone with a life alert around my neck.

this post is about to be as subtle as taylor swift’s “dear john” – but that’s fine because i don’t think this particular individual can read anything besides my unanswered texts. 

you know that feeling you get when you see an unsaved number pop up on your phone? that little tickle in your gut that is silently freaking out? OMG he/she texted me OMG – i’m so irrationally happy right now. 

they call that feeling “butterflies.” but, dear single human, those are not butterflies. those are motherfucking piranhas eating away at your core, dignity, and general self-esteem. 

“i met a guy in a bar,” i told my friends. an organic meeting (in 2017, who knew?!). someone bought me a shot, i was adorably too drunk to take said shot, turned around and handed it to the cute guy behind me. then we started talking. i was into him.

before my friends and i left the bar, i made the aggressive decision to grab his face and also put my number in his phone. “meet us out later.” i expected nothing.

and then – the unsaved number pops up. butterflies – no. PIRANHAS. RUN. do i run? of course not. i welcome this interaction with open fucking arms, like an idiot. 

“he’s over 30 and we met in a bar, he’s just trying to take you home” (says the angel on my shoulder) v. “he’s 30, so he's mature, and he texted you so he’s into you” (says the devil on my shoulder). i said fuck off to both of them and decided not to think at all.

he meets us out – which shocked me. “he must really be into me,” i ignorantly tell myself. we spend the night together, then he very soberly takes me to brunch. “why do people complain about being single in this day and age? i go to one bar, i meet the best guy.”

but it would never work, i tell myself – fully aware of this as it’s happening, as i laugh at his jokes that aren’t funny and ignore that fact that he’s wearing an abercrombie & fitch t-shirt and this is not 2006. we’re plane rides away from one another... but whatever, this is fun. 

i would like to go back and slap myself in the fucking face.

i leave our little weekend and for approximately three full weeks fuckboy texts, CALLS, and even FACETIMES me. we’re talking about seeing one another again. i’m so into him.

additionally, for some very unclear reason, we’re in a full blown trivia crack war.  oh yes, trivia crack. the app game that was a thing over two years ago. but i’m competitive, and i like seeing his name come up on my phone, so i’m thinking – bring it. just another way to make him think about me. 

as the days go on, i’m sending texts that go unanswered. i’m annoyed/sad/whining to my friends who tell me to slap on some fucking lipstick and get over it. but what did i do wrong? i reread texts, and i stare at those fucking read receipts hoping to see those stupid fucking ellipses. but they don’t pop up.

yet, despite the READ unanswered texts (read receipts – why), he’s still playing me in fucking trivia crack.  and what’s worse – i’m playing back. and playing, and still not getting a text answered, and playing. 

finally, after some lame ass excuse for not talking to me, i gave up. white flag. i’m trying to be better than this. i deleted the app.

but, honestly, in what world does someone not text you but play you continuously in trivia crack for days after ghosting?! a world full of fuckboys. that world.

i won, in case anyone was wondering.

so you’re single. and it’s fine, you’re fine - it’s fine. your smartphone is the entry to the dating world, or so they say. you’ll be fine.

you cried over a breakup, you burned sage all over your apartment, you pretended yoga was relaxing, you’ve eaten pints on pints of ben & jerry’s, and now you’re ready to run head first into the dating world. it’s fine.

STEP ONE: Download dating app. Wait, which app?

Tinder? No, don’t people only meet up to have sex on that? Too aggressive. Toe in the water - not trying to dive into a shallow pond and break my neck.

Bumble? Okay, bees are cute so Bumble it is. But then I have to say hello (girls have to initiate on Bumble). I can’t say hello, my self-confidence doesn’t exist anymore. It’s smashed to smithereens. Deader than the dinosaurs - that’s out.

Coffee Meets Bagel? I’m gluten free (duh).

Hinge? I don’t think anyone has been violently murdered on a Hinge date so, let’s download this one.

Wait, but what about The League? Nice try – there’s a three month waiting list to go on one shitty date that will go horribly. So horribly, in fact, that you’ll go home drunk, crying, snort some anxiety meds, and end up texting your ex.

STEP TWO: Hinge is downloaded – “create a profile.” But there are unspoken dating rules to said profile.  You can’t have too many groups shots (because how will Prince Charming know who you are?), you can’t have too many selfies (because you aren’t Kylie Jenner), oh and for sure don’t put up anything before college (because then you’re catfishing).

How many different filters can I use to make to a picture to look remotely presentable?  One of me on a night out (I don’t go out – who am I kidding), one with less of a smokey eye that looks like I’m asking for it, and maybe one without a pet.

What do I like? Um…I like my cats (cats plural)…nope. That won’t work. Red flag.  Oh, I’m actually really into murder. Nope, not a great first impression. 

What would Carrie Bradshaw have put?

“My name is Carrie and I’m into shoes I can in no way realistically afford, writing a column in a newspaper that doesn’t exist anymore, and living in a large apartment in New York City where I have only ever seen one mouse.”

You know what? Fuck it. I’ll get a third cat, maybe a fourth, and die alone. This is fine. I’m fine.

welcome friends, family, fuckboys, cat ladies, people who drink wine at work lunches, and people who still use read receipts as if it’s a thing (it is not a thing. turn them off).

this is a blog about the terrors of dating in an age of social media, an age where the person in the cubicle next to you knows your grandmother’s middle name. an age where if my friend tells me she’s going on a date with “fred h.” from Hinge, i have the power to send her a full blown history of fred’s life - the good, the bad, and the downright bizarre.

it’s not all fun and games though, and that’s why we have this.

DISCLAIMER - these posts (for those who know me) are not all my personal stories. and in an effort to keep this fun and not solely about the lives of myself and my friends - strangers, web sleuths, and psychopaths unite! send me your app/dating/regular life horror story in the form of email, screenshot, or video (if you feel so inclined) to [email protected].

dating right now isn’t fun, but you shouldn’t have to do it alone. so take some anxiety meds, grab some wine, and email me your tales of failed matches past.