Why I didn’t write back.
You wrote, “Hello. Nice profile.” You asked me how my week was going. I hadn’t opened my blinds in five days. I thought about responding, “My week is going well.” I imagined us in two years, dining in a restaurant in silence.
You mentioned lube.
You asked, “What music and literature do you enjoy?” Nobody talks like that in real life. I wanted to pretend this was real life.
You wrote, “You help me for improve my english and I can help you to learning cooking, Italian or play soccer.” I tried to imagine what it would take to motivate me to play soccer.
You had only one picture; I didn’t trust you.
Your self-summary read, “I hate lies.” You must have been 60. Your profile said 32.
Your profile said, “I am in need of the best love.” Your honesty made my throat ache.
You wrote, “Hey, I want to be honest here.” I stopped reading.
You described yourself as old-fashioned, suave, and aggressive.
You wrote, “Hey, how are you?” I was bingeing on Hershey’s Hugs and sending telepathic messages to my ex: think of me.
Your stated preference for positive attitudes.
The joyous photo of you frozen mid-leap.
You wrote, “An author? Awesome. Unless you’re being like the woman I met last week who also indicated she was an author before fessing up all she meant was that she ‘authored’ her own profile. Ugh.” I felt protective of her. Let us call ourselves what we believe we are.