blip: my every-app-match.

Meet a man I call the blip. I find a LOT humour in the blip. It’s not a full fledged story but because of the just bizarre reoccurance of the blip, and his connection to my brief nothing with a guy I call eight. I thought it might be interesting to include it for comic relief. And really, the blip is just one of the many ways that online dating is strange. If you’re ever on multiple apps, which I highly recommend by the way, sometimes you run into the same faces over and over. Read on dear readers, but don’t blink, you’ll miss the blip if you do.

What you need to know / blip context:

  1. Blip and I went to highschool together, he is one year older than me.
  2. Blip and I have never spoken. Or met. Ever.
  3. Blip dated a friend of mine in high school. No one knew until they had broken up.
  4. Blip is one of eight’s best friends. Undetermined if he knows about eight and I.
  5. Blip works in the same large factory as my ex. I can’t remember how I know that.
    … but the part that makes blip funny … 
  6. Blip is one of my first matches consistently on every dating app I’ve joined.
  7. Blip and I have matched 3 times to date – there will be more, mark my words.
  8. Blip has never responded to a single message I’ve sent him.

Let’s get blipping blipped. So the first dating app I joined was Plenty of Fish, let’s just say I didn’t last long on there. Maybe a week or two if memory serves? The sheer number of messages I got, some of them downright disgusting, was entirely overwhelming, while the average level of attractiveness of the men, in contrast, was absolutely underwhelming. I forget the terminology for Plenty of Fish: I know when you’re filtering dudes it would say “Go Fishing” but maybe it’s “so and so thinks you’re a catch(?)” I don’t know. Whatever it was, blip made my phone go *ding* on day 1 of online dating.

blip
I knew his face instantly when I looked at his picture. His profile photo is him, crouched to the ground on a walking trail, wearing a royal blue windbreaker, with his left arm slung over the shoulder of a shepard-mix-mutt. The dog is cute, and you better believe that I will yes/no swipe depending on what breed of dog a dude has (it seems as good a deal-breaker as any other I can think of).  Blip has roundish cheeks and a nice scruff of a beard, not too much/little. He’s wearing a baseball cap with sunglasses perched on top of the bill. He’s attractive, but I can’t say I find myself particularly attracted to him, but I don’t write him off entirely, attraction isn’t always instantaneous.

I subsequently got like 30 more dings that day and turned off notifications for the app entirely feeling more than a little overwhelmed. All of my time on POF was spent opening messages, checking the profile, and blocking/deleting the dude. The general impression I got was most of these guys are lazy or total pervs and in general I just didn’t like the vibe. I quit POF like a bad habit with just one phone number exchange. (A guy called disneydad will skeeve you out in a future post.)

I didn’t reciprocate with blip on Plenty of Fish.

At the recommendation of one of my single bro friends I decided to give Bumble a try; he told me the guys would be more my speed, and I could pick and choose who to contact. I Bumble BOOM’d with blip a few swipes after the BOOM with a guy called eight. I admit I had sort of written him off because of the aforementioned “he’s attractive but I’m maybe not attracted?” and yet I do feel like if he had chatted me, and we hit it off, I would’ve did a date thing to see what happened. This is what I wrote about matching with Blip in the first eight blog:

“I have a new puppy and I walk constantly … and I think maybe I can strike up a conversation and make a dog walking friend. Swipe right. Boom, I match with the blip and I tap out a message: “Heyy (two y’s cuz chill girl) … looks like we’re having a high school reunion on Bumble.”

Blip never replied on Bumble.

Towards the end of the summer I deleted my Bumble profile because, frankly, I was talking to a lot of guys already. And one rainy night, I was having a lazy day at the gym walking on the treadmill and playing on my phone I downloaded Hinge out of sheer curiosity. The profiles on Hinge are extremely easy to set up. And you better believe that our friend blip made my phone go *ding* within an hour of downloading Hinge. Blip had liked a photo of me; it’s a selfie of me sitting at my desk pointing at a Starbucks cup. I laughed out loud on the treadmill as I clicked on his profile and saw his windbreaker dog photo. I scroll down. He had written something about how he’s never been skydiving and knows the best place in town for spring rolls. Yawn. I don’t eat carbs and jumping out of a plane seems like a bad time bro. I scroll more and what I saw next hit me like a freight train. The other photo on blip’s Hinge profile was of a bunch of dudes on a beach, and there, smack dab in the middle of the photo is a guy called eight. That’s not what got me though. In the photo eight is wearing the yellow cotton shirt I woke up in the morning after I blacked out and had sex with him.

yellowshirt
I had been walking on a treadmill, probably closing in on my third kilometer, when I saw the photo. The air completely escaped my chest. I had to step up off the belt onto the side walls. I had a completely visceral memory of how thick the cotton of that t-shirt is, of folding it lengthwise in half, and of hanging it over eights claw-foot tub. Eight and I were still in contact at this point – but the horse called eight that I was kicking was dead and I knew it. I replied to the blip “Uh oh, lol, hey.” I chose this approach because of the unknown variables:

  • Does he remember me from high school? Probably not, eight didn’t, after all.
  • Has he just been courtesy swiping. If above is true, decidedly not.
  • Does he know about eight and I? I have no clue at all if guys discuss dating.

Blip never replied on Hinge.

Hinge isn’t super popular in my town; there just wasn’t enough options on there to make keeping the app worthwhile. But I kept it installed for 48 hours longer than I wanted to just to give the blip a chance to reply. Later that week, after deleting my Hinge profile, the blip showed up as a recommended friend for both my Snapchat and Instagram – interesting huh? I was at work checking my social media, as one does, and I literally groaned out “oh sweet merciful assholes” when I saw his name.

His Instagram account is public but it hasn’t been used in over a year and only has 6 photos, two of which are poutines, alongside the windbreaker selfie. I decide my better option is sticking to my strengths,  so I added the blip’s ghosty ass to Snapchat and I sent him a video selfie saying “bet” and captioned: “Bet $10 you won’t reply Hinge/Bumble ghost”. I deleted him immediately after sending it.

Blip never replied on Snapchat.

Blip is still in my recommended friends on Instagram, we have a few followers in common, including eight. Blip is weird to me because I’m not even attracted to him – but he is attractive, I think? I don’t know – but him not replying is oddly enticing, like an online game of hide and seek; I like games damnit. Rest assured that I will swipe right on the blip’s blue windbreaker selfie, every single time I see it, whenever I rejoin the ranks of online dating, And because sometimes I do things just for the story, I plan to recreate my own royal blue windbreaker dog selfie and use it as my next profile photo.

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