My dating profile is a work of
strategic chaos, a carefully constructed trap I've laid to weed out the unworthy. The main photo is a shot of me holding a massive catfish. I have this tiny smear on my face that I tell people is fish guts. It's a test. If you can't handle me at my most fish-covered, you don't deserve me at my clean-shaven.The bio is where the real magic happens. It opens with a bold, confusing statement: "Seeking a co-pilot for my squirrel-based defense system." From there, it devolves into a series of non-sequiturs and demands. I list my skills as "expert-level parallel parking" and "can name every U.S. President in order, but only backwards." Under "My Perfect Date," I've written, "We'll go to a Home Depot, pick out the best sledgehammer, and then test its structural integrity on an old watermelon. My treat."
The questions section is my favorite. "Do you have pets?" I answered, "Yes, a possum named Gerald who lives in my shed and pays rent in shiny objects." "What's your relationship status?" I put, "It's complicated, mostly with my router." For the "I'm looking for" section, I checked "Casual," "Serious," "Friendship," and "Something else," because why limit yourself?
The messages I get are either utter confusion or absolute gold. I ignore the "ur weird" and the "lol that's funny." I'm waiting for the one. The one who sees the catfish, reads about Gerald the possum, and replies with something like, "I've got a sledgehammer collection and my router and I are on a break." We haven't found each other yet, but I know she's out there, scrolling through a sea of smiling beach pics and boring bios, looking for a man who isn't afraid to get a little fish guts on his face for love.