E

leanor*

The first time I ever went on a date, it was 

with a girl from Tinder. I was 19, fresh off my freshman 
year and spending the summer back home in New York. 
So innocent. So pure. So skinny. I remember seeing the 
notification that Eleanor had messaged me flash on my 
phone and immediately thought she was a bot. Usually 
these bots present themselves as very attractive women 
whose low standards are only matched by the low 
resolution of their photos and a very high interest in your 
routing number. Since she had instead complimented 
my alliterative bio, I took the plunge and messaged back. 
We spoke back and forth mainly in alliteration, then 
assonance, then consonance, then in French, then like 
normal people about Kurt Vonnegut, Soulja Boy’s descent 
from godhood and the trailer for the new SpongeBob 
movie. Our conclusions were as follows: The movie was a 
sham. The whole premise is that SpongeBob and his pals 
are finally adventuring above water. They already did 
this in “Pressure” (Episode 32, Season 2). SpongeBob and 
his posse were all popsicle stick puppets for the above-
water scenes. The movie sold out by making them CGI. 
We would’ve paid good money for a feature-length, 
popsicle-stick, puppet movie. Anyhow, one thing 
lead to another and I asked her on a low-key 
Tinder date.

I don’t drive so my dad offered to dress like 

a Secret Service agent and chauffeur me to 
and from the date. The main problem with 
this plan was that he drove a 2004 Honda 
Odyssey. The windows aren’t even tinted. 
I ended up taking a train two stops over 
to meet her. I still have the ticket stubs 
floating around my room. 

We wandered around town and saw 

the hipster version of Teddy Roosevelt 
and left a bunch of pennies heads up for 
people to find. I accidentally got over-
caffeinated at a Starbucks, which has 
become a reoccurring theme in my love 
life. A lot of that relationship involved 
hooking up in cars, which fortunately 
did not become a reoccurring theme 
in my love life. One day I’ll properly 
delineate the difference between “going 
on dates with,” “dating” and “seeing” 
(and all other variations ad infinitum) 
someone. That day isn’t today. That was 
prelude to disarm the follow: We ended up 
going on dates for the rest of the summer. 

Jenni*

This was my first Tinder booty call. I 

marveled at how she mixed blueberry vodka 
with seltzer. My childlike fascination with basic 
mixed drinks would also become a recurring 
theme in my love life. I had been reading a lot of 
people’s last words and we talked about what we 
wanted ours to be. The word scrimshaw was said at 
some point.

I’ve suppressed the rest of our conversation due to 

what happened when we started hooking up. I had 
whiskey dick (really blueberry vodka and seltzer dick, 

but whatever) and she was very keen on that fact. She 
repeatedly let me know that I was having technical 
difficulties. My expression, not hers. I think I would fall 
in love with someone who referred to my impotency as 
technical difficulties.

Eventually I finished and she told me I really seem like 

I’m autistic, which was not very cool of her. My silence 
was punctuated by the still playing episode of “It’s 
Always Sunny in Philadelphia.” Eventually we went back 
to the sex thing and she asked me what she could do to fix 
my poor performance. I was pretty bitter about the whole 
autism thing and asked her to make pterodactyl noises or 
recite the U.S. constitution. I have the subtle belief my 
life is a movie and I do things that would only be funny to 
a live studio audience. Once I broke up with a girl while 

wearing a Drake sweatshirt and smattered Drake lyrics 
throughout the conversation. I love Drake so much. 
Anyhow, digressions aside, she looked at me quizzically. I 
mumbled never mind and kept thrusting. I came; she left. 
I think to do mission work in Africa.

I asked Eleanor* if she thought I seemed autistic; 

she said I was cool and idiosyncratic. We drew Twitter 
participation trophies for one another on the back of 
index cards and sent them back and forth.

I was back in New York a little while ago and Jenni 

and I matched on Tinder, then she unmatched me. So at 
least I now know that this was a sufficiently traumatic 
experience for everyone involved.

Girl Who I Have Literally Zero Idea What Her Name Is

We went to a decent diner and I had an anxiety attack. 

I couldn’t make eye-contact for the majority of the date. 
That went over about as well as you would expect it to. I 
shook her hand and told her this was a very solid two out 
of 10 experience. On the bus ride home, Eleanor* and I 
discussed whether my campers calling me their favorite 

gringo was a compliment or not.

Eleanor* pt. 2 (October 2016)

A couple months ago, I was visiting a friend 

from high school who goes to the same college 
as her and asked if she wanted to get a cup of 
joe. Eleanor did me one better, and invited 
me to her literary society’s wine tour.

It was weird. The conversation didn’t 

flow like it should have even though 
we were both drunk. The pauses were 
punctuated by the wheels on the bus 
going round and round. We had both 
changed a lot but in a lot of the same 
ways, which is to say that we both 
became somewhat depressed leftists 
with an affinity for meme culture. The 
usual millennial liberal arts evolution.

Later that night, we went to a vegan 

dim sum joint and talked about how 
it’s often impossible to fully appreciate 
potato curries. Too often, potatoes are 
left bland despite being drenched in 
sauce. They just don’t absorb flavor 
as well as tofu, really unfortunate 
stuff. It felt like a sufficiently quirky 
conversation. I got what I came for.

All of our dates had ended on public 

transport; some things don’t change. I 
turned around to get one last glimpse of her 
and the bus blurred her form into the street 
lights. I surveyed the crowd of my fellow 

Greyhounders; there was a man resting his 

amputated leg on a CVS basket to keep himself 

steady. It’s impolite to stare so I did what’s natural: 

looked down at my phone and began swiping again.

*All names have been changed to protect the 

innocent.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016 // The Statement
6B

A Collection of Tinder Memories

by Roland Davidson, Daily Arts Writer

ILLUSTRATION BY EMILIE FARRUGIA

