So, a few days ago, I got matched with a guy on Tinder. He was cute, and we had a friend in common – he grew up with my cousin in North Jersey. We started texting, and he told me he worked in finance and lived in the Meatpacking district.

I automatically knew that meant we had nothing in common. Living in Brooklyn and wanting to be a writer is pretty much the polar opposite of living in Meatpacking and working in finance. But…I have always wanted to marry rich. I nurse the fantasy of shopping at Barney’s and drinking good wine and having someone to bankroll my career. So, I figured, that dream deserved at least a drink.

And then I was reminded of something. Men who work in finance are the worst.

He just seemed entirely unbearable. And, when I asked him when we should get together, he said, “Lets [sic] just be spontaneous!” I responded, “That sounds the same as being flakey.”

And that’s where it ended. So much for dating a rich man. So much for my champagne dreams. Guess I’m destined to a life of cigarettes and cheap wine. Broke men are just such better people, in general. We share values and dreams and pastimes – plus, they’re cute and scruffy. Can’t rock a good beard and tattoos in finance.

Bottom line is, I’m a terrible golddigger. Oh well.

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