We’re never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy.
The definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior over and over expecting different results. Or, if you’re me, it just means you use Tinder. There’s a lot about this hellapp to be confused by, but the one genuinely perplexing behavior, the one that really drives me to draw on the walls with lipstick, is the fact that no matter what I say, no matter who I say it to, none of the men I match with ever, ever write back.
I’ve always had a pretty crap ratio of messages sent to messages responded to. It was a little better when there was a “2” in front of my age as opposed to a “3,” but we all know that men essentially just want to date a frozen time capsule of the girl who sat in front of them in English 101 freshman year literally for the rest of their lives, so that is to be expected. I’ve tried everything, I’m a writer for goodness sake, but no matter what, the silence of nonresponse is, quite honestly, impressive.
Can I ask, what are we doing here? If we’re not on this app to actually communicate with and meet other human beings, why then do we use it? What, for the love of waffle fries can someone please tell me what is the point of swiping right on someone, matching with them, and then just never responding to their goddamned message ever into infinity?
But Shani, maybe you’d just have better luck if you wait for the men to say hello to you first?
OMG great plan, why don’t I do that and you take to the forrest in search of your fairy godmother and we’ll see who gets what they want first, hmm? Men do not say hello first. Ever. Unless to say “you up?” at 4am on a Sunday morning and should therefore be penned, like cattle, until they expire of natural causes.
Not only do they not say hello first, but they don’t say hello second, either. They don’t say anything at all. They just become a string of 50 (yes fucking 50) unanswered messages in a row on an app that runs on an algorithm of lies. Is no one else screaming into their laptop right now? Just me? Cool.
It’s actual madness! Hey, let’s use an app but then not use an app, you know? It’ll be so fun, you just swipe right on all these chicks and then when they send you a message you just ignore them. Bro, it’s awesome — hurry up we’re late for Crossfit.
I do not understand this lack of logic. I’ve tried, dear Bowie in heaven I’ve tried, to make sense of it. But the volume, the simple numbers involved make it statistically impossible that all of these men just “didn’t see the message,” “deleted the app six months ago,” “just kind of changed his mind about you, you know?”
Someone, some person has to write back. Otherwise all we’re really doing is dumping photos of ourselves into a festering bucket of nothing and giving our right thumbs a workout on occasion. There is absolute lunacy in spending our time this way. It is a straight jacket that fits terribly and smells of stale Jameson.
But Tinder is there. It’s always there, like a mer-temptress beckoning you into deep, dark water. The app exists, and if it exists, that must mean it “works.” You can’t do nothing, you have to try. If you don’t try, nothing will ever happen, and then nothing happens when you try.
Maybe this is just the way it is, and accepting that will service the insanity heaped upon me by a thing built with ones and zeroes. Maybe the little red square on my phone can’t hurt me. Maybe there’s no solution except the one that sounds crazy. Maybe dating apps are crazy. Maybe we’re all just a little mad here.