by Stosh Bartkowski, a squatter on John DiFelice’s account
So, I’m divorced. I’ve been divorced twice in the last three years. You might say I’m a hopeless romantic.
I have helpful friends who want what’s best for me. One of them called when he heard the latest news and said, “Dude! This is awesome! Get on Tinder! You’ll be tapping squeanies till the cows come home!”
I didn’t understand what he meant, but tapping squeanies sounded better than what I had been doing which was staring at myself in the mirror and saying “Fuck you” over and over again.
I’ve never been on Tinder or any of the other dating apps. I left Twitter and Facebook years ago because I hate them. But the moon was just right and I had recently started drinking again, falling off the wagon after an eight-year ride and getting ground up in its spokes before landing in the horse’s dung bag.
With empty beer bottle in hand, I signed up for Tinder.
I used this as my main pic:
My Tinder profile was live. Let the squeanies rain down upon me, if that’s even how the word is used.
I put the phone down for a half hour. When I opened Tinder again, I saw that I had 21 likes. I took to strutting around my bedroom with my empty bottle of suds, feeling like The Man yet disappointed I had just sent six years of sobriety down the tubes. I went to reap my rewards, only to find that all the images were blurry.
What mind-fuckery is this?
I soon found out that I had to pay $30 to see the images of my soon-to-be hook-ups.
I called the friend who had suggested Tinder, and he said, “Yeah, you gotta pay. Tinder is expensive. But it’s good.”
Fine. What’s $30 compared to the $100K I’m about to lose in the divorce. “She may take my freedom, but she cannot take my $30!”
I paid the money and looked upon my list of Likes. Two things occurred to me straightaway.
- I did not set my gender preference correctly because it was a list of men and women (I’m straight).
- Everyone on the list looked like people Frankenstein wouldn’t nail.
I called my friend back while holding a full beer this time.
“Dude, you have to boost yourself,” he said. “There’s a button named Boost. Hit that shit.”
I drank the rest of my beer while cursing myself for throwing away five good years of sobriety.
I went back to Tinder, found the Boost button (after paying additional money), and hit it. Something that looked like confetti rained down my screen while a circle spun around with numbers that counted down to something. The only thing it could have been counting down was my patience, growing thinner by the minute.
I had even more likes and two matches. Now we’re talking! I matched with two women which means we both liked each other.
The first woman was named Marisa, and she was from Panama. What a beauty. Physically, she was just my type. I like dark women like Latinas, Middle Eastern women, and Indians. Nothing is better than long black hair and brown eyes, which also includes East-Asians.
Long story short, Marisa turned out to be a prostitute, so that left Bachelorette #2. Not that I have anything against prostitutes. As George Carlin said, “Selling is legal. Fucking is legal. Why isn’t selling fucking legal? Why is it illegal to sell something it is completely legal to give away for free?” I never understood it either. It was a tough reminder though, especially after three years of sobriety.
Bachelorette #2, whose name was Tang, looked like an old girlfriend of mine, the one my buddy Tom Hagan introduced me to.
“John, this is Mai Ikeda. She’s good with the knife.”
With that, Mai and I (sounds like a candy) were off to the races, if by the races you mean we crossed the event horizon of a gigantic black hole together. We plunged headlong into eternal darkness, our atoms stretched into a string that was light years in length. When I thought we were dead, we came out the other side and I realized we were both far worse off than dead. I don’t want to talk about Mai anymore.
Tang told me she was looking for the love of her life.
“On, Tinder?” I asked.
She said yes, and I suspected one or both of us had to adjust our expectations down a whole hell of a lot, and I assumed it was her. Turns out it was me.
Tang was super hot, and super romantic. She asked me if my sperm was still good given my age. I told her that I was the only one seeing my sperm lately and I’ll like to change that. She began pasting passages into our chat from “Farewell, My Concubine,” or so she said. I never read it. After two days of this, I told her that since she was looking for a husband and I swore an oath to my parents that I would never marry again, it probably wouldn’t work out.
That was the last I heard of Tang. I never heard back from Marisa either, which surprised me. I thought she’d be a better salesperson for her lovely wares.
So where doesn’t this leave me? I’m out a few bucks and I killed a whole week of sobriety while realizing that Tinder is not the hookup factory I thought it was. I’ve since learned that some heterosexual men have a 0.60% success rate on Tinder. As the late, great Robert Schimmel once asked, “Am I wearing an ‘I’m an Asshole’ t-shirt?”
Yes. Yes I am.