By Amy Koch, Illustrated by Juan Leguizamon
You’re a result of drunken Tindering. My apologies for the accidental and very incorrect swipe to the right. My drunken self has different standards. Well, no standards at all, actually.
You insist on sending me naked pics and want the same from me. Despite the fact that Tinder doesn’t allow photo messaging.
I know chivalry is dead. But that does not mean everyone appreciates your “Let me get at dat ass” BS.
You sent me five messages . . . in a row. Before I even saw the notification.
You want to meet up at this very moment. I’m either busy or too comfortable with my sweat pants and wine.
You told me your height. I no longer feel like we would match aesthetically.
You keep begging for my phone number. Which really ruins the anonymous-messaging aspect of Tinder and somehow seems too creepy.
There is such a thing as too many smiley faces. And emojis.
You told me you “miss me.” Homie, you don’t even know me.
I do not care that you are a foreigner and that it’s your last night here. There are plenty of drunken bros and hos for you to get it on with.
We met in person and, true to online dating stereotypes, you’re not who I thought you would be. Now I’m busy burying my head under a rock for a few days.
You changed your main photo. You consequently dropped a few cuteness levels.
You keep me updated on everything you’re doing. No, I do not care that you’re going to the gym or taking a nap.
You asked me, “What brings you to Tinder?” I won’t entertain you with my desperate desire for a relationship.
You asked me, “What brings you to Tinder?” I won’t entertain you with my desire to hook up with the whole Tinder world.
