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Memoirs of a Tindoirs

I’d like to officially announce the recommencement of the Tinder Games – Christmas Edition.

Now, as random as this minor fact might be, it has come to my attention that ‘bae’ does in fact translate into poo as per our Danish pal’s native tongue. This now makes the word ‘bae’ a unique identifier for all my previous pieces of poop, including the one I wrote about a few weeks ago.

Okay, so it’s a bit of a relatively fresh wound but I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – I can move on pretty fucking fast. The minute either party – whether that be myself or the other – say stop, it’s done.

What even are second chances? So foreign.

So without delay, I present to you my memoirs of a tindoirs. (Please tell me you giggled!)

Once upon a time – circa 2014 – I matched with a guy who did in fact stand me up at Pancake Parlour. Since this very day, I practically troll him. Every single time I’ve recreated my Tinder profile I swipe him right for a good ‘ol cackle and we always match. But…

Today I matched a guy who looked a solid six out of ten. Turns out he plays in the same basketball team as my mate whom I just mentioned, so I consulted with a few friends and hey, I hit the jackpot. Brothers, they are brothers. Dim brothers at that, holding a conversation that is a one way banter fest is simply pure torture.

Moving on, we have the guy with the IQ level of a chipmunk, (no offence to the chipmunks, I just needed an animal and you magically appeared in my brain.) Okay, so this guy had a photo in his profile that featured a pal of mine. Instead of opening the conversation with my usual gif, I opened with “Oh hey, that’s my pal in your picture”. No joke, I explained this in three different ways and he couldn’t quite understand what I was talking about and responded with some solid confusion. “Huh”, “I don’t understand”, “Okay so that’s your friend in my picture”. Look we eventually got there, three times the charm!

Finally, we have the grand Tinder Social groups that struggle to banter without mentioning a fucking rim job and then turn into defensive trolls when you pack their little manhood back into the box in which it belongs. Like come on fellas, you’re suppose to be gentleman, key word being suppose. Now I’ll be the one to say no parents would ever approve of a conversation that occurs on Tinder, but for the love of god – at least use your manners.

Further, I’m afraid the banter levels of society slowly decrease with every adventure I make to the tindorous land of fuckboys. Please reeducate yourselves.

Now, let the games recommence!

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