I’ve recently settled on a surprisingly successful new dating strategy: I Don’t Give a Fuck. Instead of worrying about being ‘on’ all the time, especially via text, I just proceed as if I have known this person for years and IDGAF what they think of me. This means I can be a sarcastic, vulgar weirdo, and if they don’t like it, they can eat a bag of D.

I don’t think any dating columnist would recommend either of the following strategies, but – say it with me – IDGAF: this week I have both sent pictures of my cats to a guy I’m interested in, and had a conversation with someone else in which, when asked if I was drinking alone (doing the classic Steph drunk clean), I responded, ‘I’m not alone. I have cats.’ I know we cat ladies are supposed to hide that fact because it can scare off the menfolk, but eventually the truth is going to come out, so why prolong the inevitable?

Another thing I’m not trying to hide: I swear, a lot. Perhaps you’ve noticed? My conversations are peppered with colourful language, and I’m fine with it. Even the dreaded ‘C-word’ doesn’t bother me; I quite enjoy the fact that the OED just added the word ‘cunty,’ and am going to make an effort to use it as much as possible. Recently, when making the move from Tinder to text (the lag in the app can be batshit insane, making convo difficult), this happened:


If I were having a conversation with any of my friends, that is exactly what I would say. Deal with it (he did/does).

I think this whole ‘this is who I am, deal with it’ mindset is tied into the fact that I am letting emotions enter the picture now. A while ago, a friend and I were discussing some of the differences between men and women, and he said something along the lines of me being exempt because I’m more robot than girl. I told him I had a recent hardware upgrade, and an emotion chip was installed, although I thought it was faulty since I was having all of the feelings, all of the time. We decided it might not be the chip itself, but the beta tester that was broken. I’ve done some further upgrades, and I’ll let you know how the next round of testing goes. I was discussing dating with a group last night, and I mentioned my non-committal ‘phase.’ That same friend, who’s known me for about 13  years, called me out on how long said phase really was – probably the better part of 11 of those years. When someone else seemed surprised that I have feels now he chirped, ‘She’s a real boy now, she even has a cricket.’ True story.

I used to try to hide my trainwrecky ways: I’m a disaster in the kitchen, my room often looks like an episode of hoarders, I drink a little more than recommended, I’m a hippie weirdo who doesn’t eat meat, I can’t function in heels for more than two hours (max), I am forgetful as fuck, and I constantly misplace things (I hunted for my glasses for 20 minutes this morning; I somehow lost them while I was asleep). The thing is, I don’t want someone to date me in spite of these things, I want someone to accept that they are as much a part of me as the 19 tattoos, my slightly crooked smile, and the fact that I sneeze when I’m full (snatiation, it’s a thing).

And while I’m dealing with all these feelings, there’s always wine:





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