A few weeks ago on Tinder, a guy opened a conversation with the line ‘Real?’ to which I replied ‘Not real’. So far we’re channelling Hunger Games #relationshipgoals Peeta & Katniss, I’ve got this under control, it’s all good. His next comment however, wrote him off straightaway. ‘Weed? Leather? Attenborough?’ As I’m not really a fan of a recreational high, I decided to put a delicate end to our strange little chat & said something along the lines of how I cared for none of those things. I thought that would be it. End conversation & move swiftly on. Job done. Boy, could I not have been more wrong.
As a bit of context for what happened next, my Tinder bio reads as follows : “Hello, I’m 23, 5 foot nothing, and I think I like dinosaurs much more than people. I’ve also been known to change my hair colour 5 times in a week. I prefer reading to reality.” Fairly niche, I know, but it keeps out some of the riff-raff. Or so I thought. The one thing that about 90% of people pick up on is the mention of dinosaurs. Nearly every message I get mentions dinosaurs in some way or another, & I love it as it’s somehow always innocent. Another recent match’s opener was : “I would like to apologise for not being a dinosaur….though I do have tiny arms like a T-Rex if that helps :)” (I miss Ben, he may have actually been one of the good ones. I remember him being unreasonably excited about going to Alton Towers for a weekend. He was cute).
WeedLeatherAttenborough Dude (or WLAD as we shall heretofore refer to him) took a slightly stranger tack. Instead of understanding my rebuttal of weed and leather as the acknowledgment of the NSFW combination that it is, he, wholly incorrectly, presumed that what I actually disliked most of all about his comment was the mention of the national treasure that is David Attenborough. WLAD loved Attenborough. I mean, really loved him. Loved him to the extent that my casual admission that I’d never really watched an Attenborough documentary induced a crazy spiel from WLAD on how I’m a pretentious twat who only says things to get attention. And when I tried to protest, he told me I had an attitude problem. A real modern-day Prince Charming for sure. To prove I’m not making this up, I screen-shotted the end of his rant to show you all below. (He unmatched me within seconds of typing the last crazy paragraph. As you can imagine, it was no great loss). I’ve edited out his name and profile picture so as to be kind:
For reference, I can’t remember who the other man he is referring to as ‘the most influential person of the modern age’. I have a feeling he was talking about Boris Johnson, but we’ll never know. Perhaps I’m just exaggerating now, making him sound worse than he is.
Now, whilst I was talking to WLAD, I’d also struck up a friendly conversation with another guy, let’s call him Nick. Nick seemed to have a lot more chill, we had mutual friends and he hadn’t even mentioned dinosaurs, other than to ask me my fave (Torosaurus, Protoceratops or Coelophysis if you’re wondering). I’d been keeping him abreast of the ongoing conversation with WLAD and we were just laughing at the whole debaucle. It was nice. Relaxed, even. I decided that Nick was nice and that I should probably tell him that I had only downloaded Tinder to write a blog about it, and maybe make some friends along the way. Nick was OK with this. He made a joke about whether he should be worried and I assured him that WLAD had given me fodder enough. We kept chatting for a while, he occasionally asked me if I still only wanted a ‘pal’ and I never suggested otherwise. Then, one day, Nick said that Tinder messaging was awkward, and we should just text instead. I was fine with this – pals text each other, right? Right…
Little was I to know that there is an unspoken rule amongst the men on Tinder that when you get a girl’s number you must suddenly become a fuckboy. It was the quickest one-eighty I think I’ve ever seen – one second he said ‘hi’ and then he asked how tall I was and then kept telling me I was ‘hot’, irregardless of where I tried to steer the conversation. I’m not even kidding, everything was ‘hot’. I tried my hardest to say bad things, unattractive things, weird things, and all he’d say was ‘I still would’. Would what? What do pals do? What are you insinuating, Nick? A trip to the ice cream parlour?
It finally got to the point where I took action and sent him a no-makeup selfie of my face scrunched up with triple chins, the whole shebang, no holds barred.
‘This is what I look like’, I said. It had to be enough, this had to work….
*5 minutes later*
‘I mean, I would’.
*20 minutes later*
‘That went down well haha’
*a day later*
*2 days later*
‘Why are you not talking to me???’
BECAUSE YOU ONLY HAVE TWO STOCK PHRASES AND THAT MAKES YOU WEIRD. (I didn’t type this, wish I had though).
I ended up deleting Tinder the same week that all of this happened. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to knock it. I don’t think it’s a bad idea per se – I met my last boyfriend through Tinder (although most of my friends would argue that this was a tragedy of the highest proportions). I just don’t really understand how the rules of social convention seem to break down so completely within the confines of one app. I’m debating setting up another profile and being as brazen as possible, as uncouth and rude and self-worshipping as all the other assholes I’ve come across. But that’s a blog for another day.
Oh, and one last thing before I go: I’m sorry, Nick, that you did end up in my blog, and that you actually ended up here for being the most oddly persistent person I have ever met, and perhaps also for having the smallest vocabulary. I wouldn’t be proud of this if I were you.
I mean, I wouldn’t.