On the world of online dating and unrealistic expectations in this modern world.

Online dating is pretty fresh on my mind right now. Someone I was seeing (for an albeit short period of time), I met on Bumble, and he just recently decided we were not a good fit (after lying to me about having feelings for at least half a month–I’m not salty, you’re salty). So, naturally, I have been pondering the strange strange world that is dating apps.

I’ll be the first to admit that meeting people is challenging. And in a small town like mine, there are not a lot of venues which promote social mingling. Unless you are super active in the college activities (which is challenging for someone *ahem, me* who also works during the school year), getting to know people is a struggle. Because, come on, for the most part, meeting people at bars does NOT go well.

So what is one to do?

A bit back, I decided to try out some of the online options, which, I figured, could either end up going terribly or more in the mediocre to neutral realm. I wasn’t really expected to find a solid relationship on it. In fact, I don’t even know if I want a relationship.

Tinder is just… no. Just stay away from Tinder, for the love of all that is good.

This is what my profile on Bumble looks like. And honestly, it is one of the more “curated” ones I have come across.

Bumble is a bit better. You get a bit more information on the profiles (though, even this is optional, so some you find at about the same quality as Tinder), including “what are you looking for” and religious/political views. Helpful if you are adamantly against associating with someone of a different ideological view, I suppose. But you still run into similar problems with Bumble… its superficial–something I knew from the start, but accepted as part of what you “get” with dating apps.

I read a statistic recently that suggested more and more gen x and millennials are turning to online dating to meet their partners. (You are going to have to take my word for it, because I really don’t remember where I saw this.) But, if you think about it, this makes sense. Within a population that is more technologically connected than ever before, it would stand to reason something like meeting a significant other could become more networked as well.

So, I did a bit more research. Enter, the League.

Notice the “global waitlist” on the bottom… can I get a yikes?

If Tinder is an old clunker car and Bumble is a Mercedes, then the League is a Maserati. I wish I could tell you more about the elitist of all the dating apps, but I am still number 8,228 on the waitlist of about 9k. Yesterday, I went down all of 2(!) people. At this rate, it will be at least a year until I get into this velvet rope club of dating apps–if I get in at all. See, the League literally vets you before you can enter into its ranks. It’s a status symbol of the dating world. If it was socially appropriate to brag about our escapades on dating apps to the general public, those in the League would undoubtably walk around with “League member” proudly on display.

So, why does it take so long to get into this “community?” Well, for one thing, a real human goes through your linked accounts (which include LinkedIn, Facebook, and Instagram) to verify you are (1) real, (2) who you say you are, and (3) worthy, apparently. From what it looks like, everyone in the League is going to be somewhat successful in their endeavours.

I’m particularly proud of my interests section… I am currently consuming aforementioned too much coffee at a cafe, writing this.

The “concierge” (yes, you get your own personal helper–if personal means the individual is likely helping many many others and is mandated to prioritize paying members. Oh, and mine went to Harvard…), suggests you be humorous and differentiate yourself. Honestly, how does one even do that on an app that only allows 100 or so characters in the “about me” section… But I gave it a shot.

So, if you don’t want to wait the years it will take for you to actually get into this app, you can pay a starting price of $41/month for a MINIMUM of 6 months to skip the line and potentially (yes, still not a given, if I am understanding correctly) get in within 48 hours or so. OR you can pay $199/month for more perks. AND FINALLY, you could pay $999/month for the VIP membership, whatever that means. LOL YIKES. No thanks. I’ll just stick to the waitlist instead of paying away my dignity.

So, is my college ass with no “real” job going to get in? Even if I do attend a more prestigious school? Who knows. And, truthfully, I likely won’t find out for months to come.

And if I do get in, will I use it? Yeah, probably. I mean, I waited that long, so why not see what it’s like in a social experiment kind of way. I doubt anything will come out out it, regardless.

a confession:

what scares me is not
that i may never love again. 
but that i may love too deeply 
someone who does not 
return my affection.

for wearing a heart on your sleeve does not make you a coward. rather, it signifies our soul felt desire to be wanted. my biggest fear is i will instill this trust in place it will never grow. or where it struggles to bloom under the chill of an unreciprocated sun.


the solemn truth about heartbreak

CW: alcohol, disordered eating, language 

I didn’t believe anyone when they said heartbreak truly hurts–a physical ache you feel in your bones. But I do now. I believe every word of it. 

As I was sobbing in my friends car at 2:30am, she told me to write it all out. So, here I am, laying in the bed I haven’t bothered to put sheets on because I haven’t had the emotional or physical energy to do laundry of any kind, in my room with clothes everywhere because I cannot get up the will to clean, writing about a brain that is so chaotic that it has exploded into my surroundings. Because what they don’t tell you about heartbreak is it is debilitating. 

When you feel utterly broken inside, how do you find the will to get out of bed, let alone put away clothes, or dishes, or match your fucking socks? How do you shower and dress and feed yourself? 

But most of all: how the actual fuck do you appear to be okay?

I repeat “it’s okay not to be okay” in my head, constantly. But it’s not working. It’s okay not to be okay doesn’t mean a damn thing when your world is crumbling around you. It doesn’t mean a damn thing as you start to inhale the dust from the rubble. It doesn’t mean a damn thing when you look around, coughing, and realize all you knew is no where to be found. 

They don’t teach you how to deal with heartbreak in treatment. They don’t teach you how to “be okay” after you break into so many pieces. Because in treatment, the enemy was visible–the eating disorder–but in this, it’s yourself. 

You don’t learn how much you will lose until you do. And you don’t realize how final and crushing it feels until it’s upon you. And you don’t feel all the regret and the despair and the massive desire to reverse it all until it’s too late. 

You don’t learn you will eat because you feel so emotional you cannot help it (even if you are in recovery from anorexia). You don’t learn you actually don’t give a fuck how much you eat because you just want some kind of comfort and if that pint of ice cream is going to give it to you, then you will eat that whole damn thing. You don’t learn that alcohol makes it all worse and you are bound to cry even more. You don’t learn that you will undoubtably look for comfort in all the wrong places–especially when you are intoxicated. 

No one tells you how much you will miss the warmth and comfort of another person with you at night. No one tells you that you will cry when you see anything that reminds you of the past. No one tells you that you will feel utterly empty inside. 

And absolutely no one talks about how you have to respect that perhaps you realized you want something different than the other person. That it was a mistake. That you cannot live with this pain. But that you have to anyway, because a relationship only works if both people agree. 

So you sob in a car, and you get social anxiety at parties, and you reach out to people you know will only hurt you more, and you crave a feeling of safety, or being wanted, when it feels like you will never be whole again. You make a fool of yourself and hate yourself and feel the last parts of your strength dip down to dangerously low levels. You don’t sleep or you sleep too much. You cannot concentrate and you stare at screens, pages, people… blankly. You constantly drift in and out of believing your heartbreak is real. 

And it all feels like your fault. 

why is it 

that when the story ends

we begin to feel all of it 

Rupi Kaur 


moonlight illuminates

breaks in my armor 

while starlight seeps

between the gaps. 

and i wonder, 

am i radiating warmth 

or curtailing at the cracks? 


there is beauty in breaking. for everything broken was once whole, and can be again. but sometimes you dont know if youre coming together or breaking at the seams. 


it’s crisp outside.

the leaves fall with the temperature.

my emotions mimic weather.

blankets, pillows, layers, fears, tears.

they stack with the changing seasons.

this is the fall.