Every now and then, I swipe right for someone on Tinder and pray desperately that we match.

This gentleman and I matched, and I was so excited. He was so cute. Just my type. We started messaging back and forth, and then exchanging texts. The banter was great. He seemed smart and funny and interesting. And then he sent me a message that hit all of my ego points.



It’s like he was singing a beautiful love song to my soul. And not, like, some bullshit original song. A really good sexy love song (I can’t think of any right now, so you’re gonna have to use your imagination here).

I suggested we get a drink.

His response was less than what I wanted. He told me that he was “in a time of transition,” which, when I inquired, turned out to mean that he was “in the process” of breaking up with a long-term girlfriend. As in, not broken up yet. And they’d been together for three years – so homeboy really needed at least six months before he could hit me up.

Which led to problem number two. He was also planning on moving to Montana in the fall, to teach at some university in Missoula. You might think the issue was one of character, as in, I can’t respect anyone who chooses to live in Montana. But that was secondary to the issue of, well, he won’t be here in a few months.

He apologized. With this perfect text.


And he was a class-A stalker, which I respect:


Ugh, be still my heart.

So, a potential great love was thwarted. And I call him a “great love” because motherfucker appreciated all the things I appreciate about me. An all-you-can-eat buffet for my ego.

Too bad I’ll never move to Montana.