This is a modern dating experiment. One girl. Five dating sites. Hundreds of chats. Thirty days. Thirty dates. Eighteen guys. (?) boyfriend. To start at the beginning, click here -- or jump right in at date twenty-eight below.
Date 28/30: Tinder Mason*
Tinder Mason requested my friendship on Facebook. I accepted, assuming he was one of the many men I had met at our mutual friend's recent birthday.
That assumption was incorrect.
He was unsure as to whether or not I would give him the ol' right swipe on Tinder, so he cut the line. Conniving. I'm not sure how I feel about this.
...this is a real conversation? No, I do not want to watch something before I crash. I choose to forgo a reply.
"I'll make it for u one day." UGH. THE CHEESE. The whole planning for the future thing before we've even met thing is so transparent slash nauseating. Also, 'u' is not a word.
"I have already eaten. As you can see." Right. I gathered as much. Thank you so much for the reminder. STABBYSTABSTAB.
This entire conversation is making me want to die, so I go to Yogurtland to suffocate my troubles with bizarrely accurate artificial flavors. The conversation unfortunately continues en route.
Am I really going on this date??
RULE #4: SAY YES TO SOMEONE WHO IS TERRIBLE AT COMMUNICATING VIA THE WRITTEN WORD
I had crafted this rule with grammar in mind, but I suppose douchebaggery counts as well.
Also:
RULE #5: SAY YES TO SOMEONE WHO IS 39 OR OLDER
Cutting it close on getting this one in.
Old man creepy douchebag, here I come! There is not not enough cookie dough in this toppings bar to quell my anxiety.
As he continues an inane one-sided chat right up to our date, I begin to gather that he thinks he's much more charming than I think he is. This should go smashingly well.
Spoiler alert: It doesn't.
From intro to exit, every word out of his mouth is laced with condescension.
I inquire about his work, his family, his hopes and dreams - searching, nay, BEGGING, for one nugget of earnest decency. Fruitless.
I finally realize what this is. He's that guy. That stereotypical LA guy on Tinder. Get in, get buzzed, get out, get busy. Gross. This is the worst.
When he has tired of picking apart my every word and attacking my idealism, TM heads to the bathroom. I brace myself for his return. The bartender cringes in commiseration. He's been privy to a few of my less memorable dates, thanks to the Duplex's close proximity to my home. Really digging our rapport.
TM's return is delayed as he pauses to lay it on thick to some girl at the other end of the bar. I might vomit. How did I end up here?
I prepare for a quick exit. TM is completely amenable. We walk outside.
TM: See you on Facebook.
At least we're both on the same page - er, newsfeed - here? Stomach. Churn. He heads back in, presumably to track down his post-washroom prey.
I trudge home, inexplicably upset by the date. On one hand, I am so happy this disaster came at the end of my experiment. On the other hand, I am so disgusted and disheartened. After such a good run of genuinely nice guys, I had almost forgotten about that other shoe. Thanks for dropping that fungal reminder, Tinder Mason.
I call my best friend to cry out my general disappointment in boykind. Can I stop dating now please thanks.
*Not his real name