Which I have, except the only thing punching is my own brain.
The old bio is still there, still the same lazy joke, “Hockey player, recovering pizza addict, fluent in sarcasm.”
I scroll through the photos.
There’s one of me at a team party, mid-smile, my arm slung around Raz (who I cropped out, because he’s hotter than me), and another of me holding my sister’s cat.
The rest are all variations on the theme of “hey, look, I’m a real person, not a bot.”
I start to edit, thumb shaking just a little as I delete the oldest photos, swap in a newer one from the gym, the one Maya said made me look “unexpectedly approachable.” I don’t want to seem desperate. I want to look like someone who is fine, or at least fine-adjacent.
Then there’s the line. The “about me.” I type, then erase, then type again.
- “Still alive. That counts for something.”
- “Trying to figure out what comes next.”
- “Just looking for someone to help me ignore the news for an hour.”
None of them are good. None of them sound like me, but I can’t remember what “me” even is at this point. I settle on: “Running on caffeine, bad decisions, and the world’s worst luck.”
I let it sit, thumb hovering over “save” like maybe someone from the League will audit my thoughts and fine me for excessive honesty.
The next step: the preferences.
I’ve always left it on “everyone,” not because I’m bi but because I’m terrified of what happens if I pick a side.
When you’re a benchwarmer your whole life, you learn to play every position. But tonight, the app wants me to update, to specify, to “define my interests” for the algorithm’s amusement.
The options glare back: “Men.” “Women.” “Everyone.”
My thumb hovers over “men.” Hovers longer over “women.”
Back and forth, like a flickering light.
It takes longer than it should, but I settle on “everyone.” The exhale is loud in my own ears, the sound of a secret leaving my body for the first time in writing.
“Congratulations,” the app says, or might as well. “You’ve been yourself for once.”
The thought makes me want to laugh and puke at the same time.
For a minute I do nothing, just stare at the “you’re all set!” screen. I close the app, open Grindr, and immediately close it again. My hands are shaking harder now, a fine tremor in my wrists that I blame on caffeine but know is fear.
It’s easier to go back to Tinder, to the parade of faces, most of them with the same empty eyes and forced smiles as me.
I swipe, right, left, right, left.
Every so often there’s a match, a little pop of “it’s a match!” that should feel like a win but really just feels like hitting the same bruise over and over.
I message no one. I don’t know what I’d even say. “Hey, wanna meet up and stare at each other until the existential dread eats us both?”
I scroll through my matches.
One of them is a grad student in marine biology. Her profile pic is her grinning, holding up a giant, angry-looking crab.
She’s cute, in a way I might have been into three years ago.
Another is a bartender with sleeve tattoos, the kind who looks like he could kill you or make you the best Old Fashioned of your life. He’s local.
