You open Tinder… just to laugh.

You tell yourself it’s ironic. It probably isn't. That's okay, though, you're good at lying to yourself.

The screen burns your hangover-blurred vision, but you begin swiping — left, left, left — with machine-like detachment.

First guy: Mark, Software engineer, 6’0, runs a community garden. Bio says: “Looking for a partner to cook with and grow old alongside.” He’s smiling next to his niece.

Too nice. Looks like he’d apologize during sex. Left.

Next: Paul, Pediatrician. Plays jazz piano. Volunteered in Sierra Leone. Wearing those clear-frame glasses that scream “emotionally available.”

Too emotionally available. Left.

Then: Arthur, Math teacher. 5’9. Actually makes you laugh with his bio: “If you like oat milk and emotional intelligence, I’m your guy.”

Too short. You’re 5’5, but still. You don’t want to settle.

Another: James. Musician. Has a beard, reads Bell Hooks, 6’2, makes his own pasta. You get a weird vibe.

Looks like the kind of guy who’d ask how your heart is and actually mean it. Gross.

You sigh dramatically, like you’re the protagonist in a sad indie film, even though you’re just wrapped in a crusty duvet surrounded by empty White Claw cans and old mascara wands.