As a single person of the female persuasion, I decided to give this whole Tinder thing a whirl. The whole thing started out somewhat innocently; I naively thought that it would be the best place to meet other single people, and so armed with some deceptive pseudo-attractively “well-lit” and carefully-posed photos, I joined the fray. I carefully spent a huge amount of time on my bio, because again I naively thought that people actually gave a shit about what you have to say.

‘Nobody would ever NOT be interested in me after reading this bio,’ I thought to myself smugly, as I posted my awesome profile up for the world to see. ‘I’ll have a harem of men by sundown.’
And so I began to swipe.

After about 30 minutes, I was wondering if I had inadvertently joined a website for fishing, beaches and tiger enthusiasts, because every single photo I had seen thus far displayed a male either holding a large fish, posing with a drugged-up tiger in Thailand, or standing shirtless on the beach.

Bewildered, I began reading the bios.
“Likes: travel, beach and fun.” (Wow, so deeply unique and interesting – it’s so rare to meet someone that likes those things).

“Pubs Not Clubs” (that’s such a weird thing for almost every guy to feel that they need to state in the tiny amount of space that they are given in which to tell prospective partners about themselves).

“If your a chatbot or prosttute dont fucken message me” (spelling/grammar mistakes galore, angry guy who is sick of hot girls turning out to not be real girls).

I began worrying that perhaps all the men on Tinder were THE SAME. But surely even Tinder has some sort of bell-curve distribution of personality?

I continued swiping. By this point the bone was beginning to show through my thumb pad. Sweat was beading on my forehead as I anxiously swiped beach photo after fish photo after tiger photo. I tried to focus on my phone screen, but every time I closed my eyes the tigers, fish and beaches were looming closer and closer in my mind’s eye. I began to panic, frightened tears streaming down my face, my now fully-exposed thumb bone carving a horizontal notch into the glass screen of my phone. With every swipe, my anguished mind became more tortured. Tigers and fish became one horrific entity, a large tiger body with a fish head prowling across a beach. I passed out in a sheer deranged panic, waking up hours later to find myself lying on the floor, with no thumb left and only the broken remains of my mobile phone for comfort.
Tinder: 0/10, do not recommend.

Photo Credit: Forte Mag