Dear Billy/Lucas/Jared/Nick,
Sincerely, I don't know your name, nor do I expect you to know mine. See, to me, you'll always be the man I've seen on Hinge five times. And I think that's beautiful.
I'm writing this letter because this afternoon, while on Hinge conducting my daily purging of men-who-like-me-but-really-have-no-business-expressing-their-interest-in-me, I found myself yet again, for the fifth time, confronted with the photo of you mounting a seven-foot-tall animatronic T-rex, captioned, “10 Coronas and 4 cigs and I can do this do you, baby.” And despite this photo eliciting such a viscerally negative reaction that I temporarily considered self-mutilation, I couldn't help but wonder, how is he doing?
Admittedly, I've found your incessant presence in my quest to find true love on the internet to be a bit irritating. My profile specifically states I'm looking for “the Jim to my Pam,” meanwhile you're still “figuring out your relationship type.” Can't you recognize our incompatibility? We could never sustain a decade-long office romance, much less, an uninspired text exchange.
But I suppose this is what compelled me to reach out to you in the first place. I'm worried you're not getting it, guy. And I can only imagine that your repeated interruption in my Hinge experience is not an isolated case. How many hundreds of other women in Los Angeles County have you tormented with your games? What has occurred in your personal life for you to delete and re-create your Hinge account five times, only to preserve the same exact details of your profile that, presumingly, left you without love?
Is everything going OK at work? I see under the job section of your profile you've written, “runs a business/gems.” Hey, what's that mean, bud? How does a sports marketing major from rural New Jersey get their hands on gems?
I see under ethnicity you've written Italian, but I've chosen in this public address not to be prejudiced, so you leave me coming up empty.
Are you supported socially? Involved in any after-work activities? (This is me choosing to assume your job takes place during the daytime and is not reserved for the deep, dark hours of the night.) I heard beach volleyball is in! Why not put that extra fat you're holding onto in your thighs and ass to good use?
How about a pet? Surely, a guy who “will care more about gaming than about you” and lives by himself because “everyone else can suck my balls” could use some company. Imagine a little kitten cozied up in that pile of dirty clothes you've assigned to that much-too-narrow gap in between your mini-fridge and dresser. Or, I bet that Booger Wall, which you've made zero attempt to conceal (love the confidence!), would make for a stimulating scratch post of sorts.
Look, I think you're a good guy. Well, I guess what I mean to say is I've become so deflated by internet dating and men in general that I have no choice but to believe that you at least have the potential to be a good guy. The way I see it, you're kind of like my Rachael Leigh Cook in She's All That. Take off those glasses, baby, and embrace your inner artist (I saw the finger-painting in that Booger Wall, that's some avant-garde shit!)
I hope you're not put off by this letter, which includes personal anecdotes specific to you that have been broadcasted on the internet for all to see. But you've gotta understand, this is my only way of reaching you. Well, I suppose I could like you back on Hinge, but that would mean getting past all of your… stuff. And if I'm being honest with myself, I don't think I can get there.
That said, please receive this letter with gratitude and as an opportunity for self-reflection. I'd prefer that you not respond back or attempt to reach me in any way. Good luck out there, kid. Go show 'em what a New Jersey 26-year-old with a sports marketing degree and gems can really do.
Yours,
Emily from Hinge