I never wanted to write about dating apps. Mainly because I don’t use them. I’ve tried Tinder and the like once or twice, years ago, mostly when drunk with a friend, dismissing people out of hand with the casual cruelty that such apps inspire. I’m not saying it’s not fun, but it fails to compel me for longer than a few hours.
If it hasn’t already become obvious to you, I am very stupid and deeply romantic. The idea of some app interfering with fate repulses me. Everything about it feels wrong to me — sterile but also unstable and frantic. So, I don’t use them.
That doesn’t mean I’m not online and flirting. Looking, considering. Watching the game. I am. Not only because I have six planets in Gemini, and I couldn’t help it if I wanted to, but because that’s what we’re all doing. And that’s how I know what the true dating app is:
Instagram, baby.
Unadorned by the deliberate and public horniness of traditional dating apps, reinforced by its casual atmosphere, Instagram is where men go to ponder their life choices, gaze at the borderless buffet of options, and taste-test whatever catches their eye.
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