Tinder
Gah. Ok. So I met a woman on tinder. We’ll call her duckface as that’s apparently how she looks at herself when snapping selfies. It was a random match - her main pic wasn’t cringe so when she shot a message and seemed hot to trot (“let’s not be text buddies!”) I was accommodating. There were tertiary flags around texting - I guess she sent her phone number fast, meh., I’m cool with that. She texted a lot. Like frequently and rapidly - staccato-fire sometimes for 3-5 like she couldn’t finish a thought. But I was still optimistic, and made plans for Saturday. This was on…idk wed night or maybe Thursday. Today was absolutely fucking batshit. Round I of the redflags (imagine, if you will, a series of Russian nesting dolls. Each construed from a papier-mâché waxen crimson bandana. Imagine a series of this continuing on into the the microscopic where you’ve got fuckin Ant-Man poking in to see if you’re crushing the little folks as you continue to shuck): Undisclosed smoker (pack a day)