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Love Me Tinder.

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Love Me Tinder.

Just join Tinder when you’re desperate. The anti-romantic thumb shifting is just another technological automaton in our digitally regulated lives. An excuse to spend more screen time and camouflage it in an carb-counter app equivalent sexual efficiency. The economics of cupid’s arrows are priced at R129,99 a month with automatic renewal. With a premium account I tried being a Tinder Tourist and fish from International waters. Oslo or London. Your match is 10941kms away. It can’t be a hookup up app because I’m not hooking up.

Tinder shows you interesting people nearby promises the intro. I cast my gillnet of love potential for 50kms. Friends who consider themselves experts’ advise aiming closer to the city and never to use Tinder in public. If there’s two or more people in the picture. It’s not the hot one. In Cape Town it seems the Lacanian analysis remains static. The Female subject will always wait for the male object to pitch the first line. After first signing up the swiping takes its toll on the thumb tendons. A beautiful prospect appears and I swipe left by mistake. I can’t go back. I’m left hanging in limbo just having made one of those life decisions. For a few seconds I fantasize about the lost opportunities. The road trips. The mutual gay friends. Sunday morning sex and the kids who will never need a college fund or a late night hug. No domestic interrogations about who ate all the avocado. I have another match. Each notification is ego stroke. The conversation stutters and dies like a flooded Volkswagen. The next match doesn’t last two lines. Where to turn after ‘Do you own a gun?’. I swipe for the rest of the evening. The Red Radar pulses. There’s no-one new around you.

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