Tinderella and the curse of the 3-second attention span
Once upon a swipe…
In a land far, far away (also known as your dimly lit apartment at 1 AM), a lonely soul embarks on an epic quest - not for love, but for validation from strangers on the internet. This is the story of Tinderella, a poor, unfortunate spirit cursed to roam the digital wastelands of dating apps in search of a match who can form a complete sentence.
Millions of people are engaged in the same wildly coordinated social experiment: lying to themselves (and everyone else) about how their algorithm-assigned ‘soulmate’ is the real deal.
Welcome to the age of digital romance, where love is a subscription model, romance is deader than Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and dating apps are just multi-level marketing schemes for the lonely and emotionally bankrupt.
The algorithmic masquerade ball
Once upon a time, people met in person - at bookstores, concerts, or got introduced through friends who vouched for their non-serial-killer status. Eye contact happened. Conversations unfolded naturally. Sparks were real. But that was before society collectively decided that basic human interaction was terrifying and introduced The Algorithm™, a heartless, profit-driven overlord that decides your romantic fate based on how symmetrical your face is.
To fully immerse yourself in this brave new world of digital dating, you must gaslight yourself into believing that:
“We would have met anyway!” (No, you wouldn’t)
“It’s basically the same as meeting in real life!” (It’s the opposite)
“We just clicked!” (After six months of ghosting, unmatching, and deleting the app five times)
"Apps are just the new normal!” (Translation: I lack the social skills to flirt in public)
“We weren’t even looking for something serious!” (Translation: We were both desperate, but let’s pretend it’s a casual miracle)
Lars and the Real Girl, 2007
The curse of the ‘u up?’ spell
Remember the days when people had basic social skills? Neither do I.
Dating apps have single-handedly murdered charm, leaving entire generations outsourcing their social growth to Silicon Valley, where developers (who have never been on a date themselves) have replaced human chemistry with lifeless text exchanges like:
“Hey” (Pulitzer-worthy opener)
“wyd?” (Why are you like this?)
"U up?"
[Three-day silence]
“Haha yeah” (The final nail in the coffin)
This is courtship, 2025 style. Gone are the days of spontaneous charm. In its place, we now have carefully curated profiles featuring seven-year-old selfies, ironic bios stolen from Reddit, and the emotional depth of a puddle.
The paradox of infinite options
Dating apps promised us infinite options, but what they actually delivered was crippling decision paralysis and the nagging fear that someone hotter, funnier, and emotionally available is just one swipe away.
Option A: Pretty good, but their Spotify is suspect. Could you live with this?
Option B: Attractive, but uses too many emojis.
Option C: Great convo, but lives 2 km farther than you’d like.
Option D: Hot, but their only hobby is CrossFit.
Option E: Ideal in every way... except they use voice notes instead of texting. Are you emotionally ready for that?
Option F: Is an actual AI chatbot but, frankly, still a better conversationalist than most.
Option G: sliiiightly older, but there's a yacht with his name on it in his profile picture. You could overlook the blood pressure pills.
Option H: Ghosted.
And because you are incapable of committing to anything in this infinite abyss of almost good enough people, you will inevitably end up alone, forever wondering if you should have just married the guy with the yacht.
Love is a marketplace
Love used to be about connection - now, it’s about marketing. You are no longer a person. You are a product, meticulously curated for maximum engagement. Optimizing your dating profile is now a full-time unpaid internship, featuring:
Lies: Your height is NOT 6 feet, sir.
Strategic Photo Placement:
Picture #1 - Decent selfie
Picture #2 - Candid laughter to prove you have a personality
Picture #3 - Random animal/human baby to trick people into thinking you're wholesome
SEO-Optimized Bios: Must include “fluent in sarcasm” or “if you don’t like dogs, we can’t be friends.”
Swipe fatigue is real, but no worries, if you feel invisible, you can always pay for a premium boost - because true love is now a pay-to-play feature.
Basic Tier: You exist, but no one will ever see you.
Gold Tier: Slightly better matches, mostly bots.
Platinum Tier: You might match with someone who isn’t a catfish.
Ultra-Premium VIP+ Tier: Access to actual human beings. (Terms and conditions apply.)
Want a meaningful relationship? That’ll be an extra $19.99. Act now!
Tinderella’s escape – realizing it’s a multi-level marketing scheme
Dating apps aren’t dating apps. They’re pyramid schemes, except instead of selling aloe vera cosmetics, you’re selling your own false hope.
Match with someone? Congrats, they’ll never message first.
Message first? They’ll reply in six business days.
Actually have a conversation? They’ll vanish into the abyss without warning.
Go on a date? Enjoy the most awkward, low-energy coffee meetup of your life.
But if by some miracle, you survive this harrowing journey, you must now lie to your friends and convince them that your love story is totally real. Why? Because every former victim must recruit more users to keep the scam alive.
The Tinder Swindler, 2022
And they lived algorithmically ever after…
Tinderella and her match ride off into the sunset… on an Uber scooter because he doesn’t believe in paying for dinner. Within a few months, they move in together, only to realize they have zero actual chemistry beyond mutual exhaustion. They fall in 'love' hard and fast, skipping the inconvenient step of self-awareness.
They get engaged after six months, because if they wait too long, they might start thinking critically about their compatibility, and that would ruin everything. Their wedding is a highly curated social media spectacle featuring captions like:
“Omg I found my forever person! 💕” (Translation: Please validate my life choices, I’m freaking out.)
“True love in the digital age! ❤️” (Translation: I cannot go back to swiping. I CANNOT.)
But deep down, an unsettling truth festers: neither of them wants to admit they might have made a mistake. Divorce would mean failure. Failure would mean… re-downloading the apps.
The sheer horror of facing that abyss again keeps them together through mere fear and mutual inertia. Their entire relationship is now a hostage situation, where they stay married to avoid the humiliating realization that maybe, just maybe, true love isn’t actually one algorithm away.
On their anniversary, Tinderella’s husband gave a heartfelt speech. She nodded along, eyes glazed over, trying to remember where she last saw her AirPods. Three seconds later, she looks up. "Wait, what were you saying?"
The End.
