You stare at the $5 in your Venmo and think, Well... at least he paid up.

Sure, it’s morally murky. But if Steve Buscemi can smolder in a cologne ad, maybe you’re just ahead of your time.

You check his profile again.

Wallstreet.

Investor.

Definitely owns at least one pair of leather loafers without socks.

You think, Maybe he’s funny. Maybe he’s just doing a bit. Maybe I should lean in.

So you do.

You tap out a message:

“You seem interesting. Wanna get a drink sometime? I know a place with overpriced mezcal and mirrors in the bathroom.”

You wait. You refresh.

You apply lip balm like it’s a summoning ritual.

Then he replies.

“Was gonna say yes but ngl sending strangers feet pics is kinda slutty”

You stare. Your brain spins through the stages of grief at lightning speed.

Denial: You didn't...

Anger: HE PAID YOU...

Bargaining: Maybe he just didn’t get the lighting?

Depression: Your feet are cute, right?

Acceptance: He’s not even hot anyway.

Whatever. He's missing out.

In a fit of chaotic confidence, you decide to take another selfie, this time tastefully lit, artfully posed, strategically filtered, and this time with a titty hanging out.

Captioned:

"Know. Your. Worth.”

Irony is dead. That'll show him.