On the apps, everyone writes like wallpaper.
Not the sexy wallpaper.
Not the feral Victorian roses.
I mean Rental Beige With a Side of Greige.

Bio:
“Just seeing what’s there.”
Same.
That’s what I say
when I open the fridge
and already know there’s nothing.

“Easygoing. No drama.”
Translation:
I do not possess the tools
and I’m hoping you won’t notice.

“Love a good yarn.”
And yet here we are,
having the conversational depth
of wet toast.

Everyone is “into adventures”
but the evidence is
one photo at a lookout
squinting into the distance
like the wind is character development.

And men holding fish—
like “behold, I can provide.”
Sir, I am not a seal.
Put it down.

The chats are worse.
“Hey”
“Hey”
“How’s your day?”
“Good u”
This is not flirting.
This is two screens
high-fiving each other
for remaining alive.

Sometimes I try to spice it up.

Me: “Quick—beach nymph, forest goblin, or couch gremlin?”
Them: “Haha lol.”
Great.
We’ve achieved… damp.
And if they pick “nymph,”
it’s a fun little IQ test.
Because half of them hear “nymph”
and immediately go “nympho 😏”
like they’ve never met a noun
they didn’t try to undress.

Not horny—just basic.
Not flirty—just predictable.
Thanks for self-sorting, bud.

Because nobody wants to be weird first.
Everyone is waiting for permission
to have a personality.

So they become the safest possible version of themselves:
a throw pillow that says Live Laugh Love
but make it masculine
and holding a craft beer.

And I’m sorry—
I’m not asking for chaos.
I’m asking for temperature.
A small flicker.
A sentence with bones in it.
But the apps keep handing me
people who sound like they were written
by a committee
whose job title is:

Brand Risk & Vibes Compliance.

Anyway.

If you’re reading this
and you think I’m mean—
I am.
But gently.

Like tapping the skull
to see if anyone’s in there.