My first Tinder date resulted in a four month long international love affair and the basis for my senior year capstone project, a screenplay. Naive, ignorant, and romantic, I had high expectations for my next round of swipes after my Before Sunrise romance came to a screeching halt.

In the summer of 2016 I went on a series of dating app dates. Below are the stories.

#1 Andrew; dating app: Hinge; age: 26; occupation: music industry shmuck

as a log-line: Blind date with Jewish second cousin, wished he was engaged already and definitely on JDate

I swiped right on Andrew approximately a week before I was moving down to Los Angeles. Eager was he—I received daily texts from Andrew prior to my move. Save the small talk for the date, huh? Andrew invited himself into my life, even adding to my Spotify playlist for my drive down the I-5. I was ready to un-match, but I’m a sell out when it comes to Sugarfish, and thus I was locked into the date. There were some highlights, he wore All Saints and paid for everything, but all that was overriden when he sent me his bitmoji peering through blinders. NEXT!

epilogue: a year later in June 2017, I received a text from an unsaved contact that read “Sugarfish.” Baffled, I quickly replied telling the sender that he/she/they has the wrong number. It was only as the grey ellipses blinked that I realized who I was communicating with.

“Jokes. You gave me your number like a year ago. Just going through deleting shit so I thought I’d be random”

I immediately blocked him six ways ‘til Sunday and haven’t looked back.

#2 Corey; dating app: The League; age: 24; occupation: finance bro

as a log-line: the guy you hook up with on Birthright, will be married within four years and probably on JDate by now

“The League” is Raya for peasants. At least last summer it had some caché, but now, it’s no better than scrolling through mutual friends on Facebook. But, since profiles need LinkedIn verification, it’s still a step above Tinder. It was a late Thursday night when I swiped right on Corey, and we made impromptu plans to meet at a wine bar. He suggested a movie at his place—I at least like to pretend that I don’t hook up on the first date, so wine bar in Venice it was. Casual. Classy.

Fast-forward three bottles and two hours later, I’m in Corey’s bed, hating myself but also being too drunk to give a damn. At least in the morning he drives me home and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see him again (only once, I have a semblance of self respect).

#3 Michael; dating app: Bumble; age: 31; occupation: ??? rich

as a log-line: egg-salad

Michael, Michael, Michael… Here we go.

Michael IRL was much grayer than on his Bumble profile. That’s the first thing I noticed when I walked into his apartment. We were meeting at his before heading to the Santa Monica Pier for one of their free summer concerts. Mayer Hawthorne headlining was the first clue to avoid that I ignored. The second, this coffee table book . Shooketh #1.

Picnics aren’t really my scene—I’ll admit I’m a high maintenance bitch, hence swiping right on a 31-year-old. Intern stipends did not lend much to lavish living and I wanted to spend my summer doing that on someone else’s dime. But, Michael suggested a picnic on the beach so I agreed. I expected Whole Foods sandwiches and a bottle of Santa Margherita. After-all, he was 31.


There were a couple of other Trader Joe’s refrigerated items but that egg salad has scarred me (and supplied me with a first date story for the ages) a year later (and probably longer). First of all, who brings egg salad to the SAND? I will let you, dear reader, ruminate on this egg salad scare. Also, IF you are going to eat egg salad, which you should only be doing on a sandwich, pair it with white wine (?), rosé (?), but SAKE? WTF.

So as I sat on the beach that was only getting colder, windier, starving, Michael went on and on about how he chose to celebrate his 30th birthday by paying to ayahuasca in a stranger’s house in Venice Beach. Shooketh #2.

Red flag alert! Does this man not have any friends? How much did he pay to do a life-changing drug with strangers in Venice, and why? Could he have not simply paid to go to Peru and do the real deal? A million questions were racing through my mind. I was saved by the bell, or the joint that he brought along but was tentatively smoking like a narc. God help me. He was the millennial my parents warned me about.

When the concert was over we had to schlep all the way to the car (the fact that he drove, and elected to deal with parking in Santa Monica on a Thursday night should have tipped me off to the fact that he’d be bringing Trader Joe’s instead of Whole Foods), fighting off the masses. The car ride home was a silent one, and I was coerced into ending the night in his place. I sat on the couch, legs crossed, fingering Around the World in 80 Raves, questioning when this purchase would be appropriate, even within a White Elephant context…

A self-proclaimed Irish Exiter, I even had trouble abandoning this ship. A faked phone call involving a too drunk friend (hey, I was only 21, still believable), a rushed sorrygottago, and an awkward hug later, I was out of there.