When I was a child, I had something of a fondness for food. Cheeseburgers, cakes, ice cream, and pizza alike all fell before the voracious wrath of my impatient mouth and insatiable appetite. At the time, it was said that I could wield a fork like (an admittedly smaller, tubbier) Inigo Montoya, and brandish a spoon as if to threaten the very life of the dastardly Count Rugen and his crafty albino servant. When my utensils of mass destruction came out, no plate nor bowl was safe from my culinary genocide. I cared not for the “Starving children in Africa” nor the shame on my parents’ faces; I cared only for my wicked gluttony and full belly.
Suffice it to say, I was not a thin lad. In fact, I was quite the opposite. Something of a gelatinous blob, really. An absolute pork chop. A chonky boi. A lil heifer. A paunchy pumpkin. A regular melon tits. Or as my friends would so lovingly call me – Tub Tub.
To be clear, I am no longer a (*reads over unused notes from draft*) “Tubby lil cookie cretin”. Having discovered girls in the ninth grade and having realized that no amount of Axe body spray could possibly hide that much lard, I was admittedly motivated to put down the quarter pounder and pick up a few (who the actual hell was I kidding) condoms. And from that day on, I swore to myself to never perpetuate the unhealthy eating and lifestyle choices that led me down such a destructive path (*Puts down leftover Taco Bell shamefully*).
However, I didn’t bring this up solely so I could think of fun insults to hurl at my former childhood self (although it was admittedly super fun. And hey! I just thought of another – “Corpulent Creampuff Crusher”. Take that, Fat Tom!) I bring it up since it’s important context to my approach to dating, and really my life as a whole. As many former chonks (or general misfits, losers, and freaks) will tell you it is critically important to develop a defense mechanism towards the things that hurt you, otherwise you’ll be unable to function in any sort of meaningful capacity. For me, this defense mechanism was humor (think “Fat Mac” circa Season 7 of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but less charming and less insecure regarding his sexual preferences). Everything is a joke. Nothing needs to be serious. Isn’t it funny how we’re all sad sometimes? Hilarious!
As such, for a while now, I’ve mostly stopped replying to prompts on the dating app “Hinge” in a manner that I expect to actually yield a response. If you’re unfamiliar with Hinge, then consider it Tinder or Bumble but with slightly less sadness, and slightly more expectations of forming a meaningful connection. To interact with someone on Hinge, you must first “Like” some aspect of their profile, and optionally provide a comment to begin a hypothetical conversation. Many people do not ultimately provide such a comment (Which will be the focus of a future “Sad Millennial Dating” post), but I sure like to. And after coming to the realization that 90% of all comments end up going straight to the ether anyways, I figured I might as well have a laugh while feeding the insatiable chaotic maw of the empty recesses between time and space (incidentally, another nickname for Fat Tom).
So, with that in mind, I plan to begin capturing some of these (theoretically humorous) comments within this blog (like the below images). Please, let my emotional repression be a balm to your weary minds. In future posts, I fully intend to provide more commentary and “analysis” around the prompts and replies, but I think the two listed below kind of speak for themselves based on the content of this post (It should come as no surprise that neither Mira nor JJ ended up being particularly interested).