Tinder
It looks weird from this angle. A snow globe with what looks like a purple penis trapped inside. It could also be a clay model of the purple Teletubby, only made in China… by a 90 year old…. with Parkinson’s.
The title said “My last Christmas”. Like that makes things clearer.
Who am I to judge art? I could barely understand it. When I told her I was into art, I meant impressionist art, renaissance art, not this avant-garde abstract bullshit where I stare at smear of brown paint on a white canvas that was undoubtedly inspired by skid marks on a toilet. If you find that mental image disgusting, be glad, because the rest of this so called art collection wouldn’t make you feel anything, much less disgust. I’d readily agreed to go with her to this exhibition at a nearby gallery that she really wanted to check out. Why? Because I was bored and she was hot and this was the one tinder match that hadn’t ghosted me after one conversation. Sure as hell beats talking to my overly religious roommate who would not shut up about the rapture.
The worst part about Tinder is pretending to be the best version of yourself, when the simple truth is you are a lot shittier than you think you are. Pure, absolute, unadulterated trash. It’s kinda poetic, in a Bukowski sort of way. I nod and agree to her interpretations of miscellaneous wax figures that don’t look like anything. I just wanted to leave. It’s not that I didn’t like her; I was just tired of pretending to be this super interesting person. I just wanted to be boring old me.
It’s tiring. All of it.
“Lets get dinner”, I say.
“I’d love that. There’s just one more wing left in this exhibit, won’t take more than 30 minutes”
Fuck I should have stayed at home.
An hour later we’re at this Italian restaurant where she orders something with shrimp and I order something with chicken and make small talk like the whole point of this interaction is something more than just a excuse to fuck, at least that’s how I feel.
“So how’s tinder working out for you?” , I ask, trying to be interesting.
“Oh, it’s okay. Lots of creeps, but it’s a good way to meet people”
We finish the meal. I insist on paying, but she insists on splitting it. We do so and I walk her home.
More small talk. Zero sparks. But it doesn’t matter. Sparks are overrated.
We reach her building and she invites me up for a drink. I was surprised, but agreed.
“What’s your poison?”
“Gin and tonic if you have any”
“Sorry, I just have wine, Shiraz and sauvignon blanc”
“Blanc, it is”
I’d tell you more, but you’d be bored. 6th grade sex ed is more interesting.
I wake up the next morning and get dressed. She walks me to the door.
“It was nice meeting you”
So I’m guessing there’s no second date. The feeling is mutual I suppose, but as a man with a working penis, I always wanted to keep my options open. Anything beats a lonely night. My dad turned to liquor after the divorce. Mom turned to religion. I turned to women who loathed me, or reminded me of their absent fathers, or were still in the closet.
The thing about misery is that the longer you spend in it, the more you actively chase it. It’s easier because there’s no accountability. You can just tell yourself everything is terrible and cant be fixed. It’s equivalent to telling yourself “ there, there, its not your fault”
But it is. It is your fault. Maybe not all of it. You could be better if you actually made an effort.
I walk into my shabby apartment. Its Saturday. My roommate is in church. Aren’t churches closed on a Saturday? Doesnt God take a day off?
My mother calls me.
“ Have you been praying, son?’
“ Yes mom, I have”
“Are you okay, son”
“Yes mom, I am”
“I’ve been praying for you. And for your father. Hope his troubles will come to an end soon.”
It won’t. Being alive was what troubled him the most. I don’t think he wanted any of this. I didn’t either.
I wanted a drink, but I don’t want to turn into my father.
