co rapist
Swipe Left on Love
There’s a strange comfort in knowing I’ve hit rock bottom in the dating world. That comfort was sitting in just fine tonight—right between Joe Santagato and Drew Lynch, who were just trying to exist in peace at the bar while I unloaded my heartache like it was happy hour therapy.
“So I tell Joe,” I say, slamming my drink down harder than necessary, “these idiots don’t start online. No. Online is just where they congregate—like pigeons to dropped fries. These morons start here—in real life—and just eventually become worse on the apps.”
Joe’s raising an eyebrow, like he’s half-listening, half-contemplating a police report I’ll be featured in. Drew’s chuckling between sips, speechless in only the way a comedian can be when reality outpaces the best-written jokes.
And just as I’m catching my breath from my rant, he shows up.
That dude—the absolute meathead with the emotional range of a garage remote who’s been trying to hit on me all night—makes a bold, bold decision. Without warning, this man actually grabs me and—I swear on Wi-Fi and dignity—throws my ass to the RIGHT.
Like a physical Tinder swipe.
I land half in Joe’s lap, missing a shoe and most of my pride. Drew nearly launches his beer across the bar. Meathead smiles like he just solved gender relations with one power move.
“I—he—swiped me!” I choke out, full disbelief.
“Swipe right to keep,” Drew mutters, deadpan.
“Do you get dragged to the bathroom if it’s a super like?” Joe adds, already rubbing his face.
And this is the worst part: the crowd sees it. AND THEY THINK IT'S HILARIOUS. As if this guy just kicked off the world’s worst flash mob. Now there’s a ripple effect—and I do mean ripple—because suddenly guys are picking up women and tossing them in each direction. Left, right, sometimes just… sideways?
It’s not a bar anymore. It’s Wipeout—but make it dating.
Then it happens. The surreal, cursed cherry on top.
I scream—“I SAID NO SWIPING, SWIPER!”—like an unhinged Dora the Explorer. And of course, because the universe has dark comedic timing, “Cupid Shuffle” is playing in the background.
Yes. Cupid. Shuffle.
Because somehow this man-turned-meme heard “to the right, to the right” and took it entirely literally. He thought it was a new dance trend sponsored by social media dysfunction.
Suddenly he’s flinging women like they’re part of a choreography no one else got the memo for. They’re midair, mid-song, mid-trauma. One girl lands on a pool table. Another gets swiped into someone’s order of loaded fries. It's Tinder meets Cirque du Soleil meets a full-blown lawsuit.
Joe stares like he’s witnessing a historical tragedy. Drew is choking on his drink laughing—wheeze-laughing now—while pointing at the carnage.
And then, Drew climbs up on his stool, one foot on the edge, and starts shouting like Siri with a megaphone:
“U-TURN! YOU! U-TURN!!”
“WRONG SWIPE! RECALCULATING!”
“YOU HAVE EXITED THE EMOTIONAL HIGHWAY!”
Some dude hesitates mid-throw with a girl half in his arms like he’s forgotten what gravity is.
Joe mutters, “Is he trying to reverse the algorithm manually?”
I’m crying-laughing, spiritually exhausted.
Drew’s not done. He starts free-styling like possessed GPS:
"In 500 feet, please STOP THROWING PEOPLE!”
“You are OFFLINE. Please reconnect to your soul.”
“Turn back now. You’re not emotionally equipped to travel this far.”
The bar has officially turned into unlicensed speed dating rugby. There is no law. Only vibes and potential concussions. Somewhere nearby, a karaoke machine takes collateral damage. A guy tries to swipe left and ends up spilling three vodka sodas and a plate of mozzarella sticks. One girl literally says, “Am I being drafted or date-casted?”
A guy near the jukebox asks, genuine as hell, “Can I swipe her… with consent?”
I blink. Progress? Dystopia with manners? Big question marks here.
I look at Joe. He’s just… blank. Processing. Or buffering.
I shrug. “This is it, man. My dating life. Live. Unfiltered. Welcome.”
Joe slowly raises his drink and clinks it against mine. “There should be a helmet requirement for single women at bars now.”
I nod solemnly. “And waivers.”
I take a long sip from my watered-down drink, now mostly ice and reminders.
Behind me, someone gets "right-swiped" into a birthday cake.
Joe’s cringing. Drew’s back on the stool, still yelling emotional U-turns.
And me?
I sit there deadpan, watching the circus perform itself.
“Talk about a tender nightmare."
I’d say Tinder nightmare, but honestly?
I think I’m starting to go blind to the stupidity.
It’s all starting to look weirdly normal.
And that?
That’s maybe the saddest part.
I set my glass down gently, take one last look at the bar full of flying singles and broken metaphors...
...and say, half to myself, half to the void:
“Maybe I’ll just swipe left on love.”
