Anonymous A started this discussion 2 years ago#114,627
I’ve accepted it. I’m going to die alone.
For years I’ve been a slave to the algorithm. Advancements in artificial intelligence and a monopolized market have reduced my dating options to oblivion.
I had swiped right on 2647 women in my week-long stay on an East Coast beach, and not one; zero had beseeched me.
I never thought I was a bad-looking guy or anything, but my experience on The Dating App proved otherwise… or so I thought.
I staggered out of my heartbreak hotel on my last day at the beach. I had needed the time alone and time away from home, but I yearned for more. I yearned for an experience which I had been deprived of for far too long.
Her ebony skin and spiked septum were welcoming to my wasted white ambition, and I used my most lit line to liberate her luscious lips.
“Let’s get our septum piercings stuck together.”
Forward without being too flagrant, and witty without being too weasel-like. The goal is to find a balance, right?
She responded.
“interlinked 🔗🤝🏾”
What was I to whimper now? The deciding factor is the following document, doctoring an ordinary dangling into either a disastrous defeat or a deafening dance of victory.
I sensed her silence, seemingly signifying that she had moved on to the next one, a pattern I had pondered on for an eon. “Her loss,” I rationalized, while realizing that the results of my weak-willed requests rested solely as the responsibility of my own solemn soul.
Observing the obtuse overseeing of every East Coast roamer in the room, I was aware that something had gone awry. Their oval eyes severed my self-aware self-consciousness. Someone had screenshotted my profile and shared it to social media, showing a shadow insinuating impending doom.
Censoring half of my headshot, the darkness obscured my ordinary oval dome, rendering a wretched witch-like portrait. The shimmering shade was evident to everyone except me, as I was ignorant to the implications that were my insecurity and immaturity, blasting bright like a Russian tsar bomba bellowing a bestowment.
The truth is the truth, and the proof is in the pudding. The cloud comes closer every day to overtaking the photo frame.
A digital demon no more, the algorithmic torture was my own tarantula.