Diaries of a Femcel: Hinge is Malware

I've been a writer for Off Leash for a while now, and with half the shit I've managed to get through to the website, I'm fairly convinced the officers don't vet the articles before posting. Ever since my mom blocked me for "crying too much in her DMs," I've needed another emotional outlet. Therapy's expensive, so let's give this a shot. 

Where should I start? Dating as a lesbian is dating in hard mode. All you have to do in order to pick up a guy is just say "yes." Or "no." They usually don't care. But what am I supposed to do when it comes to women? Go up to them in Red Square? "Hey baby... let me spend my dining dollars on you." I might as well lock myself into a medieval pillory and stand in front of Greek Row. 

I got a bright red shirt for getting STI tested at the Husky Health Center. The only reason I went to that event was to find sexually active lesbians, but all I left with was a checklist of ways in which I'm a loser and a cup full of piss. There wasn't even any point to going: I haven't ever had sex, unless you count two hours of filthy, lustful eye contact between me and a living statue in Cap Hill. Now that I think about it, she might have been an actual statue. Fuck. Anyway, I've been wearing that red shirt to Target just to feel desired. I thought I might even meet another lesbian that way, but the closest I got was a twink in a sweater vest who smelled like Raspberry Smirnoff. Hell, maybe she was. It takes one to know one, after all. 

I then went on a lesbian dating app but also had no luck. I started swiping, but every single profile was a landscape image with two male first names, shit like “Ben Cole” or “Sam Riley.” Call me crazy, but after around forty-five identical profiles, I started finding the beauty in those landscapes. I think I even swiped right on one. As for actual lesbians, all I could find were puppygirls. I've got nothing against puppygirls, don't get me wrong–I'm just allergic. Come to think of it, I'm allergic to peanuts too. Maybe one of these days I'll slather myself in peanut butter and let them lick me to death. Sigh.

If anyone's reading this (and from our numbers I seriously doubt it), it means this article has gotten through. If that's the case, I might write more. But if you don't hear anything from me, assume I finally bought some extra creamy Jif.