Score: OK Cupid: 1; Writer: 0


Oh, OK Cupid, how you consistently let us down... On Monday I had a great boyfriend.  Tuesday I was dumped.  Wednesday through Friday was spent lost in a world of microwave dinners, HGTV, and not nearly enough showers.  But it was on Saturday that I reached my lowest point; I signed up for OK Cupid.


Don’t get me wrong, I think online dating is great.  Plenty of happy couples meet on the interwebs.  But for me, thinking that I am going to meet my soul mate on a website called OK Cupid was a momentary lapse of judgement.  The website is named for the ultimate phrase of settling; “OK,” it might as well be named “Yeah Alright Cupid,” or “I Suppose Cupid.”  If the stupid name isn’t enough of a warning to stay away, the fact that this is a free dating site should have helped me put the kabash on profile creation.  If I am looking for someone to invest the rest of their life into me, the least I should expect is for them to invest $30 a month for the chance to meet me.


Clearly, none of this was enough to prevent me from signing up.  I created a profile, stressed for hours over the selection of a profile picture, and made myself public to the world.


The first few days brought a lot of offers for naked lunchtime meet ups.  I tend to use my meal times for consuming meals rather than having intercourse with strangers, though I didn’t mind the attention.  A few profile adjustments later, I received a message from Matt.


Matt seemed relatively normal; IT guy, college degree, and capable of carrying on a conversation without overtly asking me for sex.  We talked for a month or so before deciding to meet in person.  He suggested that we go to a sports bar near his job for after work drinks.  Perfect, I was on board.  Then it started…


Midway through the workday he texted and asked if I would pick him up at his house.  While not thrilled with the idea, I figured I had a pretty good idea what this guy was about and agreed to drive.


I arrive at his apartment building and knock on the door.  As the door opens my jaw drops.  He has lengthy, manicured, fire engine red fingernails.  I stand there.  Before I have a moment to artfully maneuver my words into a less harsh, “What the fuck?” I then notice that he also has the soda can equivalent of Lincoln Logs lining all of his walls.  He is a hoarder and he has lady nails.  That was not in his profile.


He quickly closes the door and we start heading toward my car.  I am incapable of stopping this, my words fail me, I don’t know what’s happening.  In a daze I drive the hoarder with lady nails and myself to the bar.   The hoarder with lady nails orders our drinks and chats about everything besides his manicure.  He pauses, looking for a response to something he has said.  Yet to say a single word, I stand up, collect my things, and walk directly out the door.  This was not “OK”, Cupid.

Bio: Mandy Williams is an ex librarian turned business lady. She mostly spends her time reading, drinking craft beer, and eating string cheese. Prime objective: Bring moxie to all situations. @sugarymandykins

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