are you sure nobody’s follow us?

CRAP. Crap crap crap crap crap. I am DONE with Match.com. DONE with it. I don’t know why I do this to myself. I know this is not a good medium for me. I know this. So why, after every couple of months, do I keep signing up, giving it another try?

This is not good. This is the email I just got, seconds ago:

“You are real! Saw you at Shaws salad bar. I didn’t say hello as you have not responded to any of my messages and figured you have your reasons. All fine. Anyhow, we both looked at each other and I was the guy who looked surprised!”

NOT good. No bueno. This is getting way too close. It was all fun and games when I lived on a deserted island with the closest “candidates” Five States Away, or too geriatric to make it down the steps, but that I can now be spotted in my local Shaws at the salad bar, without any control over the matter whatsoever?

First, I don’t remember looking at anyone. I was hungry and all I cared about was getting lunch. Second, I certainly didn’t notice anyone looking surprised by the reality of my existence. Who did he think he was seeing … Santa Claus?

I can’t even have the email in my inbox (by my logic, if I can’t see it, it never existed), so I panic and delete it immediately, before realizing that I’d forgotten to hit “Display Image.” I need to at least know who I’m now actively avoiding. I log onto match.com and click on the original email, which wasn’t even in my inbox, with the rest of the unopened emails. It was in the FILTERED box, which, if you’re being filtered electronically, there’s an even more important reason I haven’t responded.

I immediately decide to take down my profile.

I immediately decide never to return to Shaw’s, never to go to the salad bar, any salad bar, ever again. Salad bars are harbingers of bacteria with everyone illegally sampling with their dirty old hands and coughing all over the goods anyway, and my mother always said never to go to the salad bar. No good ever comes by going to the salad bar, and I immediately decide to start listening to my mother. My mother is always right, and if I listened to her in the first place I’d never be in the mess I’m in now, worrying about some strange person staking me out at the salad bar, following me home, hiding in the bushes, and peering into my windows at night.

—–
I don’t know, though. We’ll see how long all these immediate decisions last. The salad bar is just so convenient.

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