I make a habit out of setting
up online dates and cancelling. It's my real hobby, honestly. My art form. The build-up is everything. I'll spend an hour crafting the perfect witty texts, picking out a shirt that says "I tried, but not too hard," and generally making some poor woman feel like she's just stumbled into a rom-com. I'm a goddamn digital Casanova, a master of the "haha" and the perfectly timed emoji. I can make a girl feel like the most interesting person on Earth with nothing but a thumbs-up and a "you're hilarious."Then comes the day of the date. That's when the real fun starts. I can practically feel the excitement buzzing through her texts. "Can't wait to see you tonight!" she'll say. And I'll just let that shit sit there for a good, long hour. I let the hope marinate. I picture her getting ready, picking out her own outfit, wondering if our first kiss will be sweet and tender or passionate and movie-like. Spoiler alert: it will be neither.
And then, like ten minutes before we're supposed to meet, I drop the hammer.
The cancellation has to be a masterpiece of casual cruelty. You can't use a lie that's too easy to check. "My grandma is sick" is weak. It invites pity. I don't want pity; I want to induce a tiny, specific moment of "what the fuck just happened." My go-to is the vague, soul-crushing work emergency. "Hey, so sorry, something just came up at the office that I absolutely cannot get out of. So bummed. Rain check?"
The "rain check" is the key. It's the little lie that keeps the hope on life support. It's the tiny hook I leave in their brain so they don't immediately label me as a complete sociopath. But I am. I am a ghost in the machine, a phantom limb of a relationship that never was.
The best part, the absolute fucking highlight of my week, is the silence after. I know she's sitting there, staring at her phone, her perfectly curled hair starting to feel like a costume. She's replaying our conversations, looking for the red flags she missed. She's feeling that specific, hollow ache of a cancelled plan. And I'm at home, on my couch, in my oldest sweatpants, eating a bowl of Froot Loops, basking in the warm glow of my own magnificent, pointless power. I didn't want to go on a date with her. I wanted to be the reason her Tuesday night suddenly felt a little bit more empty. And in that, my friends, I am always successful.