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