mycatwontlikeyou

[mycatwontlikeyou]

an ode to failed one stands, and other bedroom horror stories.

1 - i left college without having a one night stand. so i said to myself, i'm young still. i'm attractive. i should be able to do this. do i need to have a slutty phase? 

no. but i could do this. i could have a one night stand.

i met a guy who i didn't care to get to know. he was a mean's to an end. the next time i played never have i ever i wouldn't lose a finger for not having a one night stand.

he was a terrible kisser. one of those, dry mouth darty tongue situation. but fine, i could make it work. things got hot and heavy and we're naked in bed. he asked me if i wanted to - and i said yes. he grabbed a condom out of his bedside drawer and i heard the wrapper rip. look at me go. this was happening.

he finished as soon as he put the condom.

never have i ever had a one night stand.

2 - i dated a guy with the same name as me. i thought it wouldn't be weird. in fact, i thought it was mildly cute. our wedding invitations could say "the parents of alex x request your presence to see the marriage of their son, alex x, to alex y." we could have everything monogrammed with a & a. it was like m & m, only better.

one night, we got into bed together. this time, when he came he said "oh alex." i didn't know if he was talking about himself or if he was talking about me. so i laughed. i don't think he was on board with the joke.

needless to say, it didn't work out.

3 - i was dating someone for a few years. the sex was good, but predictable. we start here, we move around to there, a leg gets stuck there. cramp, cramp, CRAMP. okay and resume.

one night, we had moved into the me on top possible. all of a sudden, i realized things were too quiet. i look down.

DUDE IS PASSED THE FUCK OUT. lightly snoring.

no amount of whiskey excuses such behavior. that should have been the sign the relationship was over - couldn't have looked at a redder flag if i tried. i ignored said flag, and we dated for a few more years.

4 - i need to understand why a guy asks a girl if she's finished yet. especially after 35 (okay, 36) seconds.

i ended up in bed with a guy with a unicorn. and by unicorn, i mean he had a micropenis and i honestly didn't think they existed in real life. well BEHOLD. there is was. in it's (admittedly small and sad) glory.

he wanted me to get on top. i tried to say "oh actually you know i prefer bottom.." but got on top.  he wanted me to move up and down, to which i stifled a laugh with a fake cough. i felt horrible but i mean honestly.

approximately 34 seconds later...he was done. then he looked at me and said 

"that was great. did you finish?" like...motherfucker no. how am i supposed to 1) finish in under and minutes and 2) (no offense to being #bornthisway but) how am i supposed to finish with the half of a baby carrot.

poor guy. i never saw him again.

5 - my boyfriend and i tried to have butt sex, but instead of grabbing normal lotion to assist - he pumped self tanner into his hands.

i was drunk and i figured what the hell. gotta try this once. i took an advil in preparation and told my boyfriend to go grab some lotion - we'd need assistance.

i've never seen such a look of pure joy. like a toddler walking down a spiral staircase into a great room with a 9 foot christmas tree, complete with colorful lights and tinsel, to see mountains of presents below the tree.

we tried - it hurt too much. in the morning, i rolled over to see that not only were my boyfriend's hand oompa loompa orange, but so was his dick. my ass had self-tanned hand prints. it made for a good laugh, but he scrubbed his hands with exfoliating beads for over two hours.

if anyone is wondering, the self tanner was st. tropez.

[mycatwontlikeyou]

let’s be real, though.

the most anxiety-producing visual on a cell phone are when three ellipses pop up, & then disappear.

i’m going to make a blanket statement & say that all women, everywhere, of every age / race / walk of life become furious when this occurs.

approximately 102 thoughts run immediately through our heads in 60 seconds:

-what was deleted?

-why did it get deleted?

-was he professing his undying love for me?

-was he texting another girl and realized he was in the wrong imessage chat?

-since i texted him last and then first today, does he think i’m insane?

-am i insane?

-should i just be in a padded room?

the problem with modern dating is that if i send you a text, i know you saw it & then you chose to ignore it.

women don’t like being ignored. no one likes being ignored.

it’s hard to be a female, in general. i’m not doing the woe is me shit - but let’s be real -- we are supposed to be a complexity of different identities all at once.

be polite, but stand up for yourself. but don’t stand up for yourself so much so that you’re a bitch.

be educated & successful, but not so educated & successful that you’re intimidating.

be independent, but also be meek enough that you seem like you need to be rescued.

think about every romantic comedy ever - the woman who is the subject of the true love story is frazzled, or silly, or pathetic & a man needs to save her. she is juggling a job & her cats & zomg her friends and she just needs someone to help make her life complete! she is never bold, she never curses, her accomplishments are never impressive, she’s funny, but not too funny, she’s not abrasive, and she’s not complex. [END RANT]

i went on a date - i thought it went well. we had things in common, good conversation, etc. almost all you can ask from a first date.

i text, no answer. answer 17 hours later, i answer in 17 minutes because, you know, i have to play hard to get. ellipses, nothing. ellipses, nothing.

ellipses, response! i respond. 

ellipses, nothing.

and it is now that i invoke a new rule of thumb, for dating in this horrific technological century - if i want to text you back, i’m going to do so. if you don’t like it, if you think i’m crazy, or needy, or pathetic, that’s fine - someone else will be interested. incredibly not sorry about it.

[mycatwontlikeyou]

where do you see yourself in five years?

we're told a lot of lies as we grow up.

if you try hard enough, you can be anything you want - lie.

the nicer you are to others, the nicer they'll be to you - lie.

then you're asked a series of questions when you grow up, and you're supposed to know the answer. i'm going to rewind 5 years and answer these questions as my younger, less jaded self.

1. where do you see yourself in 5 years?

i would have said engaged, planning a wedding, and contemplating buying out my leased car.

2. what do you hope for your 25+ year old self?

i hope she's happy and successful in her career.

do you know where i didn't see myself in 5 years? sitting at this fucking miserable date, drinking this warm beer that i will have to work out extra for, wondering if i could fake an allergy and stab myself with the epipen just to have an excuse to leave.

it’s hard to reflect back on your grand plan - the one you had for yourself. it's hard to grow up and realize the things you believed are, at least in some sense, lies.

but you know what makes it a little easier? knowing you're not alone. i am 1 in however many thousands of 20-somethings looking for the missing piece. so sit through the miserable date and never give on your dreams of becoming a trophy wife with a rose gold g wagon.

oh, and im back.

[mycatwontlikeyou]

why i don’t date frat stars - reason #502

i usually date the artsy/hipster type. oh, you are a tree biologist? awesome. you do graphic design and tattoo on the side? i’m all in.

you work at a hedgefund and pledging to your frat was the “hardest thing you’ve ever done”? count me out.

despite my usual dislike for the frat star specimen, i decided to give the frat bro from tinder a shot. he had just moved into the city, and i figured (if nothing else) he hadn’t caught the “nyc asshole virus” that has spread like rapid fire, with no cure in sight. maybe he’ll be a decent human being? maybe.

i thought to myself, i’m young, i’m single, i’m successful and i’m not going to limit my pool of fish just because i think i should. & who am i trying to fool - it’s not like my usual type had been going flawlessly for me anyway.

so frat star and i meet up. & i’m pleasantly surprised - for once. he’s taller and (dare i say it) better looking than his tinder pictures lead on. he picked a swanky cocktail lounge and confidently put his card down to buy our drinks. i was into it.

the conversation was easy, and i was starting to wonder if he put something in my drink that had me believing this could go so well. i ignore the voice in the back of my head, rolling my eyes at my preconceived notions, and decide to let whatever happen, happen.

the date continues - and it’s going well. we head to another cocktail lounge. he hands me his card and says “i’ll be right back, get us some drinks.”

this is refreshing - a guy my age who seems successful and confident and charming and willing to buy my drinks. and not an asshole.

he says “do you want to head back to my rooftop?” and i think why the hell not. i don’t think he’ll murder me and throw me in an alley. and if he does - at least i died having one good date under my belt.

he calls an uber - from manhattan to brooklyn. if you don’t live in nyc, then you don’t know that this is not only unnecessary, but stupidly expensive. i’m so flattered at his willingness to burn money on my behalf.

you know that saying? if it seems too good to be true, it probably is? someone should have tattooed that on my fucking forehead at this moment.

post-rooftop night, we end up texting for the next few days. we touch on the idea of hanging out again. on saturday we talk about meeting up, but he mentions he’s out with friends from college - fellow frat stars. (eye roll).

we end up meeting again and something feels off. he seems standoffish, not all that excited to see me. he finally brings me to his friends - he’s all over the place. yelling, loud, frat. but hey, i don’t know him well so i just figured this is what he’s like when he’s drunk.

he throws an arm over a girl i don’t know, but everyone else seems to know her. i’m out of the loop - and i need to get the fuck out of here.

the charming guy who showed up for our first date got replaced by the frat star.

he starts to pay attention to me. too many drinks later, we’re going back to his place. i trip over six pairs of nikes. frat stars.

we end up in his bed. he just goes for it - no permission, no condom, and a hard no from me.

i shove him off me jump out of the bed and ask him what the actual fuck he thinks he’s doing. the blank, deer in the headlights look on his face shows me has no idea what he had done wrong - and of course, he’s never been denied. he’s a frat star.

it was awkward after that - he’s pissed and rolls over, back to me. i try to sleep. at this point, the only reason i am still in this time warp of an apartment, is because the bed is comfortable and the thought of making a 4am trek home makes me want to commit.

he rolls back over - and get this...

the bed fucking breaks.

and with that, i begin my 4am trek home. even if a homeless man attacks me, it’ll be better then sleeping in the fucking broken bed, with the shithead of a frat star, wondering why i didn’t just stick with the artsy type.

maybe just no boys ever should be my new type.

he texted me that morning. i blocked his number. my date next week is with a graphic designer.

[mycatwontlikeyou]

an investigation into the depths of just how crazy girls can be.

i matched with a girl on bumble. 

since she had to make the first move, i was feeling pretty confident – if she were to message me then she would have to be interested. takes the pressure off of the guy (for once).

“hey, how was your day?” okay – conversational. she’s cute, she has a job. we chatted for a bit and i asked her to get a drink with me. she agreed, and we set up a time and place.

we met and, following those always awkward introductions, got right to talking. the conversation flowed, i was comfortable, she seemed comfortable. this was good. this was a solid first date.

she seems nice and normal...maybe we should do this again.that was a fun thought while it lasted.

the two hour date ended without a kiss, just a hug goodbye and an “i’ll text you.” i was fine with that and parted ways looking forward to seeing her again. 

the work week began and she started to aggressively text me about every tiny thought that came through her mind:

“ a bird just flew outside my window.”

“i have to do my laundry tonight.”

“i really wish I had ice cream.”

“do you thinks ants have feelings?”

is this girl kidding? i mean, these are harmless texts but they just oppressively continued to blow up my phone. i’m not her boyfriend. we spent two hours together. we didn’t even kiss. also – i don’t give a fuck if ants have feelings.

i stopped responding, i just wasn’t into this. i figured i could just phase out of the roster of boys she was texting and we could both carry on with our lives, continue swiping left, left, left, right, left - without considering the inner workings of an ant brain.

i was very, very wrong. not only did i not “phase out” as i had hoped, but she wanted to see me again. shit – i don’t want to be a dick but o mean, come on.

fine, i thought, i’ll man up. i’ll do the thing all girls say they wish a guy would do – i’ll be honest. i don’t want her to sit and wonder “what did i do?” – even if it should be clear as fucking day.

so i texted her: “listen, i think you’re really nice and i enjoyed meeting you but i don’t think it’s going to work out.” short, not mean, to the point. done.

i anticipated not even seeing the ellipses of a response from her – she’d probably say “fuck him” and call her friends, screaming into the phone “YOU WILL LITERALLY NOT EVEN BELIEVE THIS FUCKBOY. I CANNOT EVEN. LITERALLY CANNOT.”

she didn’t let it go – she ripped into me via a barrage of text messages that refused to stop coming in.

“are you fucking kidding me? what the fuck did i do? i thought our date went well. uou answered my text messages. are you a sociopath? am i ugly? WHAT THE FUCK. why the fuck would you do this to me. i deserve better. like, so much better. i literally can’t even. why would you text me after the date if you didn’t want to see me again? what is wrong with you?!”

...okay. the question is, actually, what is wrong with you? we. didn’t. even. kiss.

i would have accepted a “fuck you” response via text. brushed it off, moved on. but this girl kept going. she refused to stop texting me. 

eventually, i put my messages up on the apple tv – and broadcasted this absolute train wreck to my two female roommates so we could all watch the ellipses pop up and anticipate what outrageous thing this girl was going to send next.

even they, who admittedly have been, at one point or another, a little crazy, couldn’t believe this girl. rather than blocking her number, i let her get it all out, deciding this was probably the culmination of a decade of dating and not finding her prince charming.

eventually, she stopped. the dust settled. and now i never want to go on a date again. now i myself literally can’t even. 

[mycatwontlikeyou]

new age feminism.

i sucked up my pride, took a couple xanax, did a few breathing exercises, contemplated cancelling 12 separate times, and went on my first bumble date.

from the pictures in his dating profile, he looked cute. a little older, maybe a little more mature (one can hope). he looked athletic and interesting, not necessarily in that order. and apparently i thought i could tell that from 6 pictures.

i was excited to have a match. proud of myself for initiating conversation. making moves into the new me. here goes nothing.

we decided to meet at a bar, i got there first. i told the bartender that i was on my first bumble date, and if i looked like i would rather be eaten by a bear than be there - to then please pretend someone called looking for me in some made up emergency. she laughed sympathetically. "poor you - dating on apps. that sucks," she must have thought.

"peter" arrived. but if this was the same "peter" in the profile pictures, then "peter" had aged rapidly or had posted pictures from approximately 10 years earlier. "peter" looked not a blessed thing like his profile.

that's right folks - catfished.

i didn't want to be a superficial bitch, so i figured whatever - at least i'll get a drink out of this.

joke is on me.

"peter" had about the same amount of personality as a house plant. i tried to ask questions - family, friends, work, where are you from, what do you like to do, how many more questions should i ask you before i hope to be struck by lightening?

"peter" didn't ask me about myself. he just sat there, drinking a beer, and staring at me like he was wondering how he would fit my body in the back of his trunk.

finally, the bartender put the tab between us. after running the conversation for 45 torturous minutes (honestly, don’t know how i lasted even that long)  i expected he'd at least pay for my $8 beer.

he didn't reach for the check. barely looked at it. pretended it wasn’t right in front of his boring face.

did he think this was going well? that we should get another drink? is he delusional? is he a sociopath?

i had to get out of there. i texted my friend and made her pretend to be my boss demanding i fix a project that i had worked on during the day. she convincingly screamed into the phone. i have never loved her more.

i threw my credit card down. yup. i paid for the drinks. BOTH OF THE DRINKS.

i'm all for feminism but i mean - COME ON.

i ran out of that bar faster than he could say "nice to meet you" because i couldn't say the same about meeting him.

the bartender laughed behind me.

PSA for all gentleman on dating apps - put recent pictures up. i don't want to expect james marsden and get danny devito. k thanks bye.

[mycatwontlikeyou]

nancy drew & the case of the nars lipstick.

i broke every cardinal rule of dating and went out with a lax bro.

famous last words.

we met because of his roommate, who was a friend of mine from college. i figured why not – if he’s friends with my friend then he can’t be that bad.

we went out a few times.  those times were usually one of those blurry nights where i wake up and feel like i got hit by a train, have no idea how or when i left the bar, and i have make up smeared all over my face like a raccoon who just barely survived darting across a highway. delightful. this is a start to a great little shitshow.

one of these particular nights, i’m lying in bed next to him and a girl bursts through the bedroom door. i think it must be a girl that one of his roommates brought home, who just got lost on her way to the their disgusting bathroom - likely traumatized by having to put the toilet seat down.

i was very, very, very wrong in my analysis of the situation.  this particular wandering girl was not one of the roommate’s girls, but rather the lax bro’s ex girlfriend. 

the look of disgust on her face when she saw me in his bed made me want to say – “oh, but actually be happy you’re not with him anymore, because he’s terrible in bed. didn’t enjoy a second of it. have a nice night!” and run roadrunner speed out the door. instead, i sat with the sheet up to my nose as they yelled at one another.

...can you two take this argument outside? i’d like to get dressed and go throw myself in front of a subway train.

i gathered my belongings and raced out of the apartment.  i never planned on speaking to him ever again (we are never getting back together...like. ever.).

that is, until i went out the next weekend – and realized my favorite nars lipstick was missing.

the color is discontinued. to not have this particular lipstick in my life would be just tragic, it would be outrageous to think i could ever even go out again without this shade of pink heaven on my lips. i had to get it back. 

i could picture it on his bedside table, all alone and not being used to its full, glorious pink potential. the poor thing was to bear witness to the argument of the lax bro and the batshit ex, and who knows what else that went on in that tiny room.

so i texted him. “hey – i think i left my lipstick at your place. could i come get it?” no answer.

days pass. my separation anxiety is through the roof. it’s DISCONTINUED. i may never see it ever again. the world’s smallest violin plays in the background. but i am determined. i must get it back.

i text him again. i call him. text. nothing. 

i can see my dignity just spiraling downward into a deep dark abyss every text i send and every response i don’t get. is losing my dignity worth getting this lipstick back?

yes, yes it is.

eventually, i gave up trying to go through him and had his roommate (my friend) get it back for me. i promised the lipstick i would never let a guy get in between us again. and i would never, ever leave it on the bedside table.

dignity – 0. nars lipstick - 1.

[mycatwontlikeyou]

& then i had to give a statement to the police.

i met a guy at a collegiate marketing training – i know, why would someone as fabulous as me be there? unfortunately for me, i needed a job after college and thus had to attempt to network/learn things. he went to my school, but we had never met. we hit it off right away. we spent the weekend (in between dozing off during marketing lectures) getting to know one another.

i was really hoping he would reach out when we got back to school – but i left the weekend not expecting much (because i’ve played this game before, and lost).

he asked me to dinner when we got back to school. i was so excited. DINNER?! wait – you’re talking to me?! piranhas were eating away at my intestines.

i ended up at his apartment. everything was going smoothly, as i had planned out in my head. this little fantasy of some impromptu meeting – at a convention – falling in love at college. marriage. dogs. babies. white fences. daily pilates. all flashing before my eyes.

and all of a sudden – my dreams were smashed.

a screaming girl BURSTS into the room, asking me who the fuck i think i am (”a girl is no one” - thrones reference, for those who don’t know). she’s screaming at the guy i’m with, asking him how he could do this to her. he’s yelling back saying “WE BROKE UP SIX MONTHS AGO!” but this alarmingly furious girl is relentless. 

i put the sheet over my head and try to die quietly. he finally gets her out of the apartment, but she is throwing her body against his front door, screaming.

now what the fuck do i do. i can’t leave because i’m fairly sure i will be murdered horrifically by this girl who has no idea who i am.

i put my clothes back on, he’s telling me to ignore her.

IGNORE HER?! she came in here, screaming, wanted cut my head off, then kill you, and then leave and tell all her friends about it.

ignore her – yeah, sure it’s super easy to do that while she is hurling her body against your door. your apartment is about to not have a front door.

i’m arguing with him now – “can’t you just, bring her home? i’ll be gone when you get back.”

SMASH – the sound of broken glass.

she threw a fucking ROCK through his window. it landed on the floor between us (i shit you not). we stared at it, then at each other.

he called the cops. she was still body-slamming the door, probably had another rock in hand ready to go.

i had to give a statement – “yes, mr. officer sir, she did throw a rock through the window. yes it was seemingly unprovoked (but was it?). yes i am starting to feel like the crazy one.”

the police left, i got ready to leave. and by leave i mean run like a bat out of hell from that apartment.

“wait,” he said, “don’t you want to keep fooling around?”

let me count the things i’d rather do than get back in bed with you:

sleep with donald trump.

marry ted bundy.

die alone with a life alert around my neck.

[mycatwontlikeyou]

trivia crack, but won’t text back.

this post is about to be as subtle as taylor swift’s “dear john” – but that’s fine because i don’t think this particular individual can read anything besides my unanswered texts. 

you know that feeling you get when you see an unsaved number pop up on your phone? that little tickle in your gut that is silently freaking out? OMG he/she texted me OMG – i’m so irrationally happy right now. 

they call that feeling “butterflies.” but, dear single human, those are not butterflies. those are motherfucking piranhas eating away at your core, dignity, and general self-esteem. 

“i met a guy in a bar,” i told my friends. an organic meeting (in 2017, who knew?!). someone bought me a shot, i was adorably too drunk to take said shot, turned around and handed it to the cute guy behind me. then we started talking. i was into him.

before my friends and i left the bar, i made the aggressive decision to grab his face and also put my number in his phone. “meet us out later.” i expected nothing.

and then – the unsaved number pops up. butterflies – no. PIRANHAS. RUN. do i run? of course not. i welcome this interaction with open fucking arms, like an idiot. 

“he’s over 30 and we met in a bar, he’s just trying to take you home” (says the angel on my shoulder) v. “he’s 30, so he's mature, and he texted you so he’s into you” (says the devil on my shoulder). i said fuck off to both of them and decided not to think at all.

he meets us out – which shocked me. “he must really be into me,” i ignorantly tell myself. we spend the night together, then he very soberly takes me to brunch. “why do people complain about being single in this day and age? i go to one bar, i meet the best guy.”

but it would never work, i tell myself – fully aware of this as it’s happening, as i laugh at his jokes that aren’t funny and ignore that fact that he’s wearing an abercrombie & fitch t-shirt and this is not 2006. we’re plane rides away from one another... but whatever, this is fun. 

i would like to go back and slap myself in the fucking face.

i leave our little weekend and for approximately three full weeks fuckboy texts, CALLS, and even FACETIMES me. we’re talking about seeing one another again. i’m so into him.

additionally, for some very unclear reason, we’re in a full blown trivia crack war.  oh yes, trivia crack. the app game that was a thing over two years ago. but i’m competitive, and i like seeing his name come up on my phone, so i’m thinking – bring it. just another way to make him think about me. 

as the days go on, i’m sending texts that go unanswered. i’m annoyed/sad/whining to my friends who tell me to slap on some fucking lipstick and get over it. but what did i do wrong? i reread texts, and i stare at those fucking read receipts hoping to see those stupid fucking ellipses. but they don’t pop up.

yet, despite the READ unanswered texts (read receipts – why), he’s still playing me in fucking trivia crack.  and what’s worse – i’m playing back. and playing, and still not getting a text answered, and playing. 

finally, after some lame ass excuse for not talking to me, i gave up. white flag. i’m trying to be better than this. i deleted the app.

but, honestly, in what world does someone not text you but play you continuously in trivia crack for days after ghosting?! a world full of fuckboys. that world.

i won, in case anyone was wondering.

[mycatwontlikeyou]

carrie bradshaw would have died alone in 2017.

so you’re single. and it’s fine, you’re fine - it’s fine. your smartphone is the entry to the dating world, or so they say. you’ll be fine.

you cried over a breakup, you burned sage all over your apartment, you pretended yoga was relaxing, you’ve eaten pints on pints of ben & jerry’s, and now you’re ready to run head first into the dating world. it’s fine.

STEP ONE: Download dating app. Wait, which app?

Tinder? No, don’t people only meet up to have sex on that? Too aggressive. Toe in the water - not trying to dive into a shallow pond and break my neck.

Bumble? Okay, bees are cute so Bumble it is. But then I have to say hello (girls have to initiate on Bumble). I can’t say hello, my self-confidence doesn’t exist anymore. It’s smashed to smithereens. Deader than the dinosaurs - that’s out.

Coffee Meets Bagel? I’m gluten free (duh).

Hinge? I don’t think anyone has been violently murdered on a Hinge date so, let’s download this one.

Wait, but what about The League? Nice try – there’s a three month waiting list to go on one shitty date that will go horribly. So horribly, in fact, that you’ll go home drunk, crying, snort some anxiety meds, and end up texting your ex.

STEP TWO: Hinge is downloaded – “create a profile.” But there are unspoken dating rules to said profile.  You can’t have too many groups shots (because how will Prince Charming know who you are?), you can’t have too many selfies (because you aren’t Kylie Jenner), oh and for sure don’t put up anything before college (because then you’re catfishing).

How many different filters can I use to make to a picture to look remotely presentable?  One of me on a night out (I don’t go out – who am I kidding), one with less of a smokey eye that looks like I’m asking for it, and maybe one without a pet.

What do I like? Um…I like my cats (cats plural)…nope. That won’t work. Red flag.  Oh, I’m actually really into murder. Nope, not a great first impression. 

What would Carrie Bradshaw have put?

“My name is Carrie and I’m into shoes I can in no way realistically afford, writing a column in a newspaper that doesn’t exist anymore, and living in a large apartment in New York City where I have only ever seen one mouse.”

You know what? Fuck it. I’ll get a third cat, maybe a fourth, and die alone. This is fine. I’m fine.

[mycatwontlikeyou]

oh shit, you have a match.

welcome friends, family, fuckboys, cat ladies, people who drink wine at work lunches, and people who still use read receipts as if it’s a thing (it is not a thing. turn them off).

this is a blog about the terrors of dating in an age of social media, an age where the person in the cubicle next to you knows your grandmother’s middle name. an age where if my friend tells me she’s going on a date with “fred h.” from Hinge, i have the power to send her a full blown history of fred’s life - the good, the bad, and the downright bizarre.

it’s not all fun and games though, and that’s why we have this.

DISCLAIMER - these posts (for those who know me) are not all my personal stories. and in an effort to keep this fun and not solely about the lives of myself and my friends - strangers, web sleuths, and psychopaths unite! send me your app/dating/regular life horror story in the form of email, screenshot, or video (if you feel so inclined) to mycatwontlikeyou@gmail.com.

dating right now isn’t fun, but you shouldn’t have to do it alone. so take some anxiety meds, grab some wine, and email me your tales of failed matches past.