Tinder is kind of scary. You’ve only got a second to grab someone’s attention before they swipe left, and you’ve got to do that on your looks alone. When you do get a match, there are more messages asking for nudes, your Kik username or band promotion rather than a real conversation. If you’re lucky, you’ll match with someone who’s read your bio and is actually interested in you as a person. I thought I had met that person. 

Luke and I matched, and we instantly hit it off. Messaging back and forth constantly over the next two days, we realized we had a lot in common and exchanged numbers. After numerous text messages over the next week, we decided to finally meet up. 

On that fateful Wednesday, I woke up to a text from Luke asking to postpone our lunch date. He was having car troubles and was stuck at his friend’s house, where he stayed the night before. I innocently offered to pick him up, eager to meet the person behind the screen. 

Pulling my car into his friend’s driveway, I wasn’t expecting such a tiny person. I unlocked the passenger door and he greeted me fondly, apologizing for the inconvenience. As we made our way to get pizza, he commented on the music that was playing, complimenting me on choosing the soothing sounds of Joanna Newsom.

As we slowed down for a red light, he began to look around frantically, asking me to roll down the window to let in the cold December air. All of a sudden, he dove for my floorboards and resurfaced with plastic bag in hand. Apologizing, he turned his back to me and proceeded to vomit into the bag.

I snapped out of my state of shock to the sound of a car horn coming from my rear alerting me that the light had turned green. We rode in silence for several minutes until he looked over at me and noted that this had been the most tranquil barf experience he’s ever had thanks to Joanna Newsom playing in the background. As we entered the parking lot, he tied the handles of his throw-up bag in a knot and distributed it in a garbage can near the restaurant.

He continued to woo me throughout lunch, telling me about how he was fired from the restaurant we were at for writing “666” in barbecue sauce on a customer’s pizza and rushing to the bathroom for intermittent upchuck breaks. We discussed his punk band, Dick Titty Blood Punch — yes, they are on Spotify — and its fight for equality through the representation of blood punches directed towards dicks and titties alike.

In hindsight, I’ve realized most people with Tinder profiles have had bad experiences — probably none of them, though, as bad as mine. If you think you can beat my horror story, or even if you don’t but would still like to share a traumatizing experience, send them to us. We'll publish them and share the shame.

 

Submit your Tinder horror story to herald.opinion@wku.edu.