Steph Not Stephanie

No matter what, my friends always know how to cheer me up. The following text message conversation took place on Friday night:

Me: I will not cry in a bar.

My Girlfriend Not Girlfriend: Worse things have happened in a bar. You’ve hooked up in a bar.

(A long, long time ago. Sorry Mom.)

But I’m getting ahead of myself and the story. I’ve been going on a bunch of dates, meeting nice people, the usual. There haven’t been fireworks and butterflies, but drinks and good conversations with decent people — a nice, low pressure change of pace. I was especially looking forward to meeting one guy from Tinder on Friday night. Silly Steph, getting your hopes up is a recipe for disaster.

During some cute banter back and forth via the app, Douche McGee mentioned he had been creeping my Instagram and found my fat cats and tattoos endearing (shut up, Paul). I reciprocrept, and found him to be what my friends would describe as ‘very Steph:’ hipster-ish and nerdy, and we had already chatted about our respective fandoms. Since one of mine revolves around Halloween and horror, I asked if he would be up for a midnight showing of Nightmare on Elm Street. He was indeed, and we made plans to grab a pint at a nearby bar (my go-to for Tinder dates) beforehand.

We had confirmed on Thursday, so I arrived just before the chosen time (chosen by him, might I add), ordered a beer, and waited. And waited. And mother fucking waited. Now, having been down this road before, I figured I should let him know I was there. Except when I went to message him, he had completely fucking disappeared from my Tinder matches (and no, I did not see the humour in him ghosting on Halloweekend, fuck you very much). Being the positive ray of sunshine I am, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he deleted the app, maybe he was running late, maybe he was hit by a fucking bus. Regardless, by 9:20, I went from being just positive to positive that I was being stood up. So I drank my beer, choking back the mixture of rage and humiliation that went with it. I texted my incredulous (and hilarious) friends, made alternate plans, and ended up having a great night because I’m awesome (and humble).

I also sent him a passive aggressive message on Instagram (see earlier mutual creeping reference):

I could’ve played it cool and not said a word, but I didn’t because just flat-out disappearing isn’t cool. It’s a douchebag move made by douchebags. Because here’s the thing: we’ve all had changes of heart. Shit happens, life gets in the way, or you just don’t feel like putting on pants. Whatever, I get it, pants suck. But so does being an asshole.