(Title is how I feel every time I step into La Tasca, or the Trader Joe’s wine aisle) Another Sunday, another nagging tequila hangover spent mindlessly swiping on Tinder in bed with the new J Biebs album on repeat (oh
I don’t know what it is about this week that says “Hey, you know what would be funner than a barrel of monkeys?! If we made plans with J, got her all excited about them, let her get all dolled up,
“There are a lot of fish in the sea, toots, I’m sure one of them will bite eventually” – Gandhi Yeah, Gandhi, but the sea is really fucking big, ok?! My cuffing season partner needs to live in a close, metro-accessible location
My favorite conversation of the week! Remember how I said Hinge rocks because it has a field for height? Well, turns out this might not work too well in my favor: I just have a few issues with this: His first message.
Context: I started talking to ‘Clinger,’ an attractive blonde with a strange penchant for sunglasses, on Tinder one Sunday. He said he “had a good feeling” about me, so we transitioned to text fairly quickly. Over my many years (months) (…weeks) of
Context: I was really excited when I swiped right and matched with a tall dirty blonde with an excellent jaw line and obvious sense of adventure. We shall call him “Subway.” Subway’s opening line should have clued me in. “Gorgeous smile … almost