comedy

Love Me Tinder

I know what you’re thinking, “Victoria, you’re late to the Tinder game. This is old news.”

That is where you’re wrong, my friend. That is where you’re very wrong. For me, this was a long time coming. It’s time I share my story.

You see, it all started over a year ago. It was November. I first downloaded Tinder when two of my friends kept talking about it. I was down in the dumps for, ya know, reasons… for, ya know, boy reasons. But that’s not important. Anyway, I figured HEY, I literally have nothing to fucking lose and I need a good laugh.

I downloaded Tinder. I picked out pictures that made me look fun, my teeth look whiter, my hair look prettier.

It was all a joke to me. So much so that I actually made my bio read, “just make me laugh, dammit!” The results were actually hilarious:

IMG_9110.JPG

Sometimes poets are found in the least likely of places


 

IMG_9113.JPG

Dropped some knowledge on Jordan


 

IMG_9112.JPG

I desperately needed a hobby


 

IMG_9111.JPG

Gus would do anything for love


 

IMG_9115.JPG

IT’S NOT A LONG WALK IF YOU’RE ON A FOUR WHEELER, JOSHUA


 

IMG_9117.JPG

I’m not


 

IMG_9120.JPG

I don’t know, Reaves, what IF we found out we were cousind?


 

IMG_9121.JPG

Norris? More like BORE-iss, AMMIRIGHT?


 

IMG_9122.JPG

Turns out Max was a real animal lover


 

IMG_9123.JPG

Tyler was just looking for a booty call


 

IMG_9127.JPG

Marc was looking for answers that I just didn’t have


 

IMG_9125.JPG

Gross


 

IMG_9124.JPG

Nothing coherent happens on Tinder after 2am


 

IMG_9129.JPG

That’s my dream date, in fairness


 

IMG_9130.JPG

DAMN RIGHT YOU DID, SEAN


 

IMG_9128.JPG

Liam and Hank are probably married now, shitting on each other’s chests and cumming in each other’s ears. Just call me a modern day Cupid.


 

IMG_9133.JPG

Still awaiting an answer from Timothy


 

 

IMG_9136.JPG

Michael came on a little too strong


 

 

IMG_9132.JPG

I don’t get it


 

IMG_9140.JPG

still recovering


 

Needless to say, none of these “matches” were actual matches. Personally, I’ve outgrown Tinder. But I’m glad I have these little screenshots to look back on. I’m thankful for my time on Tinder. I’ve talked to so many characters. It’s basically the virtual equivalent of standing outside of a club, talking to the drunk smokers at 3am. Sometimes people are dicks, sometimes people are nice but incredibly dull, sometimes people are somewhere in between. And then there are people who will straight-up confess to being full-on rapists.

You know…I did eventually meet up with someone from Tinder.

He actually murdered me. I am writing to you from beyond the grave.


Rest In Peace,

Victoria, Blog On Fleek 

 

Sunny-Side Up Your Ass

Let me take you back. To a particular day in my life that I’m not very proud of. A moment where I let life get the best of me.

It was a Wednesday. I remember because I woke up in the morning particularly pissed that it was a Wednesday. What a shit day, Wednesday; who does Wednesday think it is, right in the middle of the week like that? Right in the way of my weekend plans. Mondays get the bad reputation, but Wednesdays are the true enemy in my eyes. Why? Because if you have a bad day on a Monday, everyone accepts it as, “poor thing, she’s having a bad day; it’s Monday!” But if you’re having a bad day on a Wednesday, you’re fucked. “Get it together,” they’ll say, “It’s Hump Day!”

Well fuck your Hump Day! There’s nothing worth celebrating about two days keeping me from my weekend. And don’t you get me started on Tuesdays! But I digress.

Right, back to the story.

It was a Wednesday. 2010. Late July. One of those disgustingly humid days when you sweat behind your knees and leave perfectly embarrassing imprints of your ass sweat on every surface you sit on. It was such a hot, muggy day and I couldn’t be bothered to eat, mostly because it would use too much of my energy to cook. And cooking implied heat, and heat implied more sweat. I wasn’t interested. I let most of the day pass surviving only on ice pops and my anger which was slowly reaching a boiling point.

There was a marathon of Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern on the Travel Channel. Perfect. My day was sorted. If you’ve ever seen it, you’ll know how remarkably interesting yet infuriating it is. The concept of the show is lovely: white American male travels the world and tries bizarre foods. What’s not to like, right? I’ll fucking tell you.

It’s not the foods that are frustrating or disgusting. The foods are interesting. It’s how good ole Andy insultingly describes the taste of said foods, in front of the people who just slaved over a hot stove making him beloved family recipes. I recall one episode in particular when he described a dish as tasting like “city park benches and dirty sidewalk curbs.” Excuse me, what? “It has that delicious moldy vomit taste.” Park benches and moldy vomit? We all know what kind of guy Andy must have been in college.

But I couldn’t look away. I kept watching the show. But it pissed me off with each passing second. It was creating a rage monster inside that not even a sewer could hold.

My tummy started to growl. Maybe it was the heat talking, but the disgusting descriptions were beginning to sound almost appealing. The ice pops weren’t holding me. It was time to make real food.

I looked in the pantry. Oatmeal? Nah. Soup? Definitely not. I moved to the fridge. Eggs. Yeah, why not. Easy enough, quick, and I love a good egg with the runny yolk. Over-easy.

Over-easy eggs always give me a hard time. No matter how hard I try to be gentle, I always seem to crack the yolk, making a yellow mess in the pan and not on my plate.

I heated the pan. I cracked the first egg. Beautiful crack. I cracked the second egg. Brilliant. I wait and then at the perfect moment, I execute the most impressive and satisfying double-egg flip one could ever imagine. This Wednesday was looking up.

Or so I thought.

I plated my food, set the plate on the table, and sprinted to the bathroom. I had to cook with my legs crossed because those ice pops went right through me.

I sat down on the toilet and let out a delightful No. 1. I glanced up at the toilet roll to see that my brother didn’t replace the paper. No worries, we usually keep a spare in the top drawer under the sink. I checked. No luck. Annoyed, I waddled with my pants around my ankles to the other bathroom down the hall. Attractive image, I know.

While I was washing my hands, I heard my dad walk through the front door. I didn’t think anything of it. I fiddled with my hair in the mirror, forcing my then curly hair into a braid and out of my face in this painfully hot weather.

I started towards the kitchen. I heard the clinking of silverware. No! I ran to the kitchen only to find my dad eating my eggs. MY eggs. My perfectly flipped eggs. I nearly lost it. At that point, steam must have been shooting out of my ears and nose and every cavity of my body.

My dad looked so pleased that I made eggs for him. “Thank you, Victoria! I wasn’t expecting to have lunch waiting for me!” Sweet, clueless man. He didn’t deserve my wrath, he didn’t know any better. So I kept it in.

I said to myself

No big deal, Victoria. Just make more eggs! Really, it’s no big deal. No harm done.

I was right.

I hate when I’m right.

I headed to the fridge and grabbed the carton of eggs. I opened it to see only one lone egg left.

ONE EGG? I’M BASICALLY STARVED TO DEATH! LOOK AT ME! I’M WITHERING AWAY TO NOTHING! ONE EGG? I thought to myself. Woah. Cool it. One egg is fine. Honestly, who did I think I was making two eggs in the first place? One egg is more than enough. 

I was right.

I hate when I’m right.

Like before, I heated up pan. I cracked the egg. The very last egg. The egg dropped into the pan and, FUCKING YOLK EVERYWHERE.

I BROKE IT.

THE LAST EGG.

I WAS WRONG.

I FUCKING HATE WHEN I’M WRONG.

Pissed off, I threw the pan into the sink and stormed off to my room. Behind me I heard my clueless dad say, “hey, next time can you make my eggs sunny-side up instead?”

Fucking Wednesdays.

The Break-Up

It’s not you, it’s me.

And I just can’t do this anymore.  This isn’t healthy.

Our love was so strong. I was somehow able to break your hard crust and feel who you really are, on the inside; so warm and soft— you comfort me. But this can’t go on.

This relationship has gone stale. I was trying to stay strong, I was trying to keep my distance, but I just can’t. I don’t have the willpower. Maybe it’s how you look, or how you smell, or maybe even how you taste. I tried to change you, and I’m sorry for that. I tried to kneed you into what I wanted. I tried to weigh my options and look elsewhere. I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I found something I liked better, I would find the strength to walk away from you and never look back.

It’s harder than that. And I realize that now.

My strength would only last days, a week at most.

We would meet at Panera and I would pretend like I wasn’t there to see you, but we both really knew I was. I would give in and indulge in your warmth and comfort. This would only leave me in pain for the days to follow. You make me sick to my stomach, and that is NOT okay. It’s like I’m allergic to you now. This can’t be healthy. This is not healthy.

I lied before; it’s not me, it’s you. You do this to me.

So, it’s time for a change. It will be hard, but I have to do this. For myself. I’m ending this, once and for all.

Bread, we are done. Gone are our days of sandwiches, grilled cheeses, toast, bagels— we’re over.

I’m a better me without you.

I’m gluten free, baby.


I’m so sorry,

Victoria, Blog On Fleek