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November 06, 2019 - Image 10

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The Michigan Daily

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Wednesday, November 6, 2019 // The Statement
2B

Managing Statement Editor

Andrea Pérez Balderrama

Deputy Editors

Matthew Harmon

Shannon Ors

Associate Editor

Eli Rallo

Designers

Liz Bigham

Kate Glad

Copy Editors

Silas Lee

Emily Stillman



Photo Editor

Danyel Tharakan

Editor in Chief

Maya Goldman

Managing Editor

Finntan Storer
statement

THE MICHIGAN DAILY | OCTOBER 30, 2019

I

used to keep Tinder in the games
folder on my phone. No, really, it held
the first spot, the top left, followed by
Tiny Wings and Words with Friends.
“I downloaded Tinder because I was
bored” is a good lie I tell myself. After my
sophomore year of college, I moved home
for the summer, and the novelty of living
in my childhood bedroom was wearing off.
My friends were either working 9-to-5 jobs
or studying abroad, leaving me to my own
devices — in this case, my phone.
After my first long-term relationship
ended earlier that year, I needed a quick fix
for affirmations. It turned out that Tinder
was a free slot machine that spit out semi-
creepy messages and heart-eye emojis every
few swipes.
I’ve always had a problem with phone
games. As a kid, I cycled through apps like
relationships; I became infatuated with
them, then obsessive, then eventually had
to delete them after they started becoming
a toxic presence in my life. I had a phase
with Restaurant Story and Smurfs Village in
middle school, which required that I get up
in the middle of the night to tend to my vir-
tual estates. In high school, I played Guitar
Hero III with my boyfriend every time I was
at his house, hoping to level up.
For my friends and me, Tinder was also a
game. We would swap phones and swipe for
each other, gawking at the white boys hold-
ing fish and their shirtless mirror selfies.
Some put photos of girls in their profiles as if
to prove women had been attracted to them
at one point. Their bios were typically that
one quote from “The Office” everyone loves
but isn’t funny. Swipe left.
Soon, I found myself swiping passively,
then compulsively. I would swipe at night
and wouldn’t fall asleep until I got one more
match. It wasn’t that I wanted to meet with
any of these people, or even talk to them —
I just wanted them to talk to me. The more
messages that accumulated in my inbox, the
more I felt I was leveling up.
Then I found Drew. In his first photo,
he was petting a puppy with one hand and
holding a ukulele in the other. Fifty-six
miles away. “College baseball player, puppy
father,
aspiring
pediatrician,
novelist,
INFJ.” I swiped right so fast. We seemed too
compatible — we were both writers, loved

dogs, played the ukulele and even had the
same Myers-Briggs personality type.
Had my swiping paid off somehow?
We matched. I messaged him and we met
for bubble tea in Ferndale. He showed me
his poetry, which wasn’t terrible. I thought
he was cute. We decided to have another
date.
“Let’s play ukulele together!” he sug-
gested as we parted ways. “I could show you
the metropark by my house. You can meet
my dog, too!” It sounded romantic enough. I
drove home with the sunset behind me and
realized I had a real crush on him.
I

didn’t tell my mom where I was going
before packing up her car and driving
56 miles to Drew’s house. I was met
with a side hug. Once inside, I met the puppy
from his profile, which immediately peed on
the ground.
“Mo-om,” Drew called and left, leaving
me in the front room with a small puddle of
urine. I opened Tinder to do some anxious
swiping.
A girl’s bare torso filled my screen. Half
of a boy’s face. A close-up of someone’s lips.
Body parts came and went as I swiped in a
rapid fire.
Drew returned with his ukulele and
drove us to the metropark. We sat in the
middle of the picnic area, completely sur-
rounded by suburban families. When the
time came to play ukulele together, Drew
began shaking as he tried to strum a chord.
It looked foreign in his hands. That’s when it
hit me — this boy doesn’t actually know how
to play the ukulele.
I ended up giving him a free lesson, after
which he became frustrated and asked me
to play a song. Very aware of the families
surrounding us in a 360-degree stage, I sang
as quietly as possible. Our audience heard
and started clapping. I announced we were
leaving immediately.
We went to a drive-thru ice cream place
where Drew ordered Flamin’ Hot Cheetos
soft-serve, then took us to a baseball field for
his dog to run around. Drew took one bite of
his ice cream then spit it out onto the gravel.
I watched in horror as he called the puppy
to finish it.
The dog demolished the cone, leaving only
orange specks on his nose. I opened Tinder
again with my phone tilted away from Drew

and continued swiping, faster this time.
Somehow, Drew decided this was the
correct time to kiss me. I quickly locked my
phone as he put his mouth on mine, and the
cheesy dust on his lips burned the inside of
my cheek. It was the only spark I felt when
he kissed me.
We sat in silence for a few minutes as his
dog ran laps around us. Finally, Drew invit-
ed me back to his house to play Guitar Hero
III. I smirked.
We played a few rounds of “Reptilia” by
The Strokes before tackling “Through the
Fire and Flames” by DragonForce. Four
minutes in, a figure walked downstairs and
almost made me drop my plastic guitar.
Drew’s dad, a short white man, was hold-
ing the scariest chainsaw I had ever seen.
The light from the TV cast a shadow that
made him resemble the final boss in a video
game. But this wasn’t a game anymore.
I should have told my mom where I was.
I
watched,
petrified,
as
the
man
approached us, turned on the machine,
and started sawing a slab of wood behind

the couch. Drew didn’t even turn around. I
jerked my body back and saw that he had an
entire workshop right there behind us.
“Hey, you’re missing your solo,” Drew
yelled over the noise.
“I can’t hear!” DragonForce swelled as
the chainsaw made contact with the wood,
emitting a crackling screech like newly-
caught prey. The noise stopped as soon as it
had begun, and Drew’s dad calmly climbed
the stairs again with his two large pieces of
wood.
I jumped up, shaken. “I need to leave,” I
said and grabbed my bag. Fifty-six miles. I
drove 56 miles for this.
In the car, I hastily deleted my Tinder
app, but knew I would download it again
within a few weeks. It took me another five
months to realize I couldn’t win and cut it
off for good.
As I merged onto the highway, I saw
the faintest sunset in my rearview mirror.
Bright orange filtered through the dark
clouds like dying tinder in a fire. I laughed.
All the clouds were shaped like Cheetos.

Modern Love: Tinder a real life love game

BY HANNAH BRAUER, STATEMENT COLUMNIST

ILLUSTRATION BY SHERRY CHEN, PHOTO BY DANYEL THARAKAN

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