Times Tinder Made Me Cry
by Emily Oomen
Match Conjuring
I burn my grandmother’s wedding dress and feel nothing. I slip into something that makes me feel like neon. I paint a dollar sign onto my face and spanx my personality into 500 characters. I’ll have algorithms be my Cinderella mice after the glass slipper cracked in a freezer when I was with him. I light sage to cleanse the internet and am reminded of why I’m here. I flick away a tear, take a shot of whisky, crack my knuckles, now I’m ready.
Murder Hornet Date
My ex’s name belly flops out of my mouth on a first date as we’re merely talking about the weather. A conversation so boring my wine yawned. When will these stretch marks on my heart fade? I cry graveyards, and my date asks if I’m ok. I go to the bathroom stung. My ex’s murder hornet nest still consumes me.
Welcome to Tinder
“Hey,” “Nice tits,” “I’m horny,” “Dick pic,” “Hey sexy,” “Fuuuuuuuuccckk me,” “Dick pic,” “I’m not a creep I promise,” “eggplant emoji,” “DTF?”
Insert crying emoji
Hit-and-Run
I’m meeting him at a hipster coffee shop, the tattooed little sister of Starbucks, but he pretends not to know me when I say hi. When I point out his name on the coffee cup, he says he has to go, hands me a five-dollar bill, and beelines out like I have a Ph.D. in ugly. I’m raining in a parade of heart latte art.
Belly Laughs
We’re on the couch after drinking a couple of beers, and I’m laughing so hard at the stories of our horrible Tinder dates that tears want to join in on the fun. How am I so lucky to have found her? We laugh through our sloppy kisses, swapping sunlight. We laugh all the way through our sleep.
Ravenous Ghost Festival
What a thing to be heaven drizzle and then become December. All I feel is her interlocked hands hollow and am haunted by a ravenous ghost festival. I look at the last message she sent me, “I had a magical evening.” Was the magic that she became a ghost? How I cry after it.
Happy 30th Birthday!
What a better way to spend your 30th birthday than lying in bed and swiping? Gym selfie, hiking pic, six-pack, dressing room selfie, hiking pic, suit. I toss my phone to the other side of my bed and stare up at the ceiling wishing it would swallow me. Is this it? I blink back tears. Is this it?
Catfish Trash
I thought watching Catfish would be therapeutic, but it feels more like I’m having a colonoscopy while I’m on my period. In my chest, I hold a gunshot so loud it shoots all the fish in a barrel. How dare you! I say until my tears bleed. I hope you choke on a salad.
Tinder Obituary
This is the obituary of my deleted Tinder account full of many pixelated tears. After 23,465 accounts swiped through, 12,855 minutes on the app, and 20 first dates, I never found the one for me. Tinder introduced me to many people as dirty as Cheeto fuzz under fingernails and constantly out-performed itself with how bad a pickup line could be. I won’t miss the dick pics or how the app gifting me with so many ghosts that horror became my heart. So, goodbye Tinder. I’m sure you’ll be horny for me after I’m gone.
Emily Joy Oomen is a writer from the Pacific Northwest. Her work has been featured in BBC, The Wall Street Journal, the Athens International Video Poetry Festival, Vice, and many other publications. She has a B.A. in English from the University of Washington and helps curate videos for Button Poetry. You can find her on Instagram @poetic_espresso