"After two days on Tinder, I realized: some people don’t need a date, they need an exorcist."
It was the second day of my spectacularly disastrous mission, codenamed:
"Five Dates a Week or Death in the Tender Embrace of My Cat."
I sat by the window, staring thoughtfully at the vibrant blue sky, where spring was blooming so passionately it seemed to be competing for an Oscar in the category of "Best Season of the Year." Below, sparrows hopped around like they were rehearsing a group flash mob, trees gently swayed their branches in the light breeze, and the neighbor’s dog chased its tail with relentless determination.
And there, amidst all this idyllic beauty, I held my phone with Tinder open, notifications blinking like Christmas lights, thinking with bitter irony:
> "Universe, what did I ever do to you? Why are my romantic ambitions crashing against the treacherous rocks of your reality like a paper boat against the Titanic’s iceberg?"
The results of day two were worthy of entry into some Book of Anti-Records.
In my personal Tinder stats by the end of the day, I had:
- 27 blocked creeps, each demanding an "intimate portfolio" in the style of "Still Life with Despair." Half of these Romeos decided to send unsolicited photos so wild and absurd that each new image made me want to not just block them, but also bless my phone, wrap it in garlic, and quarantine it. Seriously, some of those shots were so disturbing that any therapist would voluntarily demand a raise and a yearly free spa package for their nervous system.
- 31 losers with complexes, who wailed in chat so dramatically that they urgently needed saving from themselves. But since I don’t have a psychology degree, I stuck to the standard “Block and Ban” gesture.
- 13 scammers and gold diggers, who tried so brazenly to dip into my wallet that I started wondering if I was giving off some kind of “financial aid, no questions asked” vibe. Three of them were so shameless they straight-up offered their “charms” for cash, as if I were on Tinder looking for “buy a boyfriend, cheap, no mileage across Europe.”
I mean, come on, what did I do to deserve this?
Is it because as a kid I bit into every candy in the box and put the wrappers back, pretending nothing happened?
My brilliant plan to find true love was bending, creaking, and heading straight to hell...
But!
Somewhere in this zoo of loneliness, I did stumble upon a few seemingly normal candidates.
At least, based on first impressions:
- They didn’t ask for pictures of my toes.
- They didn’t inquire if I had a credit card or how easily I share bank details.
- They even constructed sentences with subjects and predicates, which, let’s be honest, is a near-extinct skill in today’s world.
With these heroes, I scheduled meetups for the weekend, praying to all the dating gods that they wouldn’t turn out to be secret passport stamp collectors or conspiracy theorists obsessed with flat cats.
Anyway, I should probably pause here and finally tell you a bit about myself, because as my best friend Ira pointed out (more on her later—she deserves her own psychedelic novel, just wait for it), the main character should be well-rounded, not flat.
Not just some generic “girl who loves coffee and cats” (because there are more of those on Tinder than stars in the sky), but a real, three-dimensional person with dreams, quirks, an allergy to toxic people, and a sacred commitment to maintaining dignity even when faced with a chat from someone named “SweetiePie777.”
So, let me introduce myself, ta-da-da-dam (or something like that—imagine epic, dramatic music playing right now).
I’m Marina. A local hurricane of tenderness, sarcasm, and coffee addiction all packed into one compact frame.
Hair—light brown, with a mind of its own: every morning it decides independently whether to go for the “homeless lion” look or “I fell asleep on a construction site.”
Eyes—brown, but in particularly dramatic life moments (like when I run out of coffee or lose Wi-Fi), they seem darker than the conscience of a shady pyramid scheme broker.
Figure—let’s just say I could be a model... if global brands finally started scouting for models in the “real person who can eat pizza at 11:47 PM” category.
My hobbies are noble and varied:
Reading books, preferably ones with someone wielding a broom, magic, or at least a ghostly accountant.
Binge-watching memes, often in weekend-long marathons.
Writing brilliant (or not-so-brilliant) social media posts, mostly liked by my mom, two friends, and a mysterious account from Turkey.
What I love:
Coffee, so much that I sometimes wonder if I should propose to it.
Cats, especially the ones that look like retired philosophers.
Evenings when I don’t have to talk to anyone, just wrap myself in a blanket like a burrito and daydream about a vacation that’s never gonna happen.
What I hate:
When someone tells me to “smile” for no reason. (Sir, I’m not a car wash, I don’t smile on a schedule!)
Raisins in any baked goods. Raisins are a betrayal in dough, a hidden sabotage among innocent bread.
And, of course, people who think it’s normal to message a stranger with “Hey, show me what’s under that sweater.”
My dreams are absolutely classic:
To find someone I can not only walk in the rain with, risking a cold without an umbrella, but also argue over whether to get a burrito or pizza, and laugh at memes so hard the neighbors call the cops for “illegal fun.”
My parents are a whole festival of personalities in a family setting.
My mom is a professional worrier with years of experience. She can stress about global warming, my love life, and an untimely planted violet on the windowsill all at once. Her life motto is simple: “Just in case.” Just in case, she always cooks soup, buys three extra sweaters, and calls me to ask:
“Did you eat today? Did you wear a hat? Did you get married yet?”
While I can answer the first two honestly, the third triggers a deep existential crisis.
Mom genuinely believes the ideal son-in-law is a hybrid of James Bond and a plumber named Joe: someone who can wear a suit and fix the kitchen faucet. In her free time, she watches wedding shows and sighs quietly, as if rehearsing a voicemail for my future mother-in-law.
And my dad—he’s the epitome of epic calm.
He belongs to that rare breed of people who only believe in what they can hold in their hands: a hammer, a drill, or a restaurant menu.
His favorite hobby is dispensing philosophical advice like:
“Don’t worry, kiddo. In this world, the key is to always have a backup plan and a phone charger.”
Dad’s convinced all men fall into two categories:
1. Those who haven’t met me yet.
2. Those who have, and are now somewhere in a corner crying and tallying up their mistakes and insecurities that I graciously pointed out.
So when I sarcastically recount my latest dating flop, he says with grim wisdom:
“Marina, remember: better to sit alone with a book than with a fool in financial shackles.”
And then I realize—no matter how tough the dating world gets, I’ve always got Mom with her strategic “just in case” reserves and Dad with his unbreakable drill in hand and optimism in his heart waiting for me at home.
That’s the version of me that embarked on this epic journey through the world of online dating: trailing irony, coffee in one hand, and an unshakable belief that somewhere out there—in this ocean of messages like “Hey, if u up, hit me”—hides my perfect match, someone who won’t be scared off by my memes, my morning hair, or my deep love for sarcasm.
And you know what?
I didn’t give up.
Because if I’m gonna be part of this circus, I’m playing the starring role, and I’ll show everyone how to pull normal people out of Tinder... or at least get some good stand-up material out of it.