Mingle dating phases

25-Feb-2016 19:51 by 9 Comments

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It's just that I'm pretty sure everyone I don't personally know is a murderer who either wants to sell my kidneys to a wealthy crime lord with two weeks left to live or collect my tears in a jar for witchcraft. (Not just buying one—I passed that freeway exit on loneliness a long ass time ago.) Look, we're all told we're supposed to embrace singledom and live in the moment and blah, and I'm all about that. Specifically the five dollar wine bottle I bought after describing my needs to the salesman as "not just cheap, but sad person cheap".Like, people who follow meet each other on Tinder and live happy lives together? I've been single (by choice, not that it's anyone's beeswax) for four years now and have had nary a complaint. Problem being, if you want to ~mingle~ living in a big city, you pretty much have one viable option: The internet. The internet is open season for murderers, drug lords, and Nickelback listeners, and all of them have just as much access to OKCupid as I do. It makes me want to want to Google things like "citizen's arrest" every time I see yet another ex-frat guy posing with a freaking tiger. FEEL MORE SORRY FOR ME THAN YOU ALREADY DO.) So it's been approximately eight hundred years since the last time I even put myself in a flirt-worthy situation, let alone actually gone on a date with someone. Like most millennials, I'm a wee bit obsessed with myself.

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Eventually I just slapped on a picture of myself holding a cupcake, because romance is dead and at least these potential mates of mine will know that if they do come over to my apartment to stab me dead, I'll have delicious post-murder snacks.

And to someone as paranoid as me, it's the emotional equivalent of swinging the apartment door wide open and yelling, "HERE I AM, SERIAL KILLERS!

" I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to almost everyone on staff at Bustle for mass texting my entry into the online dating world as if I were announcing my debutante ball. I have to do things, and then immediately seek the approval of other millennials for it to feel valid.

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Don't get me wrong guys, it's not that I don't believe in online dating. Meanwhile, I will be hiding in the far reaches of the internet, so paranoid of online dating that I'm leaning into dying alone and considering becoming a cat.

" and I'd probably be less of a millennial disappointment than I am right now. I am not a super special online dating virgin snowflake anymore.

I'm a grown ass adult with a Wi Fi connection and and I have to act like one. Upon waking, I immediately rolled over to check my e-mail, where upon I discovered so many messages from strangers that my whole body seized with panic. STRANGERS ON THE INTERNET KNEW WHAT CITY I LIVED IN AND THAT I LIKED GRILLED CHEESE AND SPIDER-MAN AND TAYLOR SWIFT. Something I have pondered in the hours since I recklessly deactivated my account: I have no problem sharing things about myself with the internet.

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In those first five minutes of telling a bot that your favorite food is grilled cheese and that you enjoy long walks in the park making faces at people's babies while their backs are turned, you really start to think that anything is possible. No other words can perfectly describe that "oh sh*t" moment when your profile goes live.

It's like willingly jumping into an ocean full of piranhas, hoping that there's one cute, derpy fish that you might want to date.

But at some point did society just decide it was unfeminist of me to say that I'm lonely, and I want someone to make grilled cheese with me and charitably laugh at my bad jokes? But this is the 2015 we live in, so here I go, internet. And as of yesterday, the true depth of my ridiculous paranoia has been revealed, through all of these stages of it I have already endured: I had a brief self-assessment wherein I tried to remember the last time I actually flirted with another human being, and I'm pretty sure accidentally grazing a stranger's butt with my backpack on the subway doesn't count. I get excited when an app so much as asks me what my birthday is.

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    And then it was like a fairy tale, even better than in my fantasies.