Summer, 2019. The kind of weather where you feel it’s a shame—not just a shame, but a waste—to be wasting away indoors, and yet, that’s what I was doing. Alone again. Half-watching TV, but paying more attention to the drama unfolding on the endless feed on my phone. Sprawled out on my bed. Wondering how it was that it was another Saturday night and I had no plans.
And then I realized: It didn’t have to be like this. I’d just moved to Brooklyn, so now my world was infinitely bigger than it was in New Jersey, even if my apartment was smaller. Translations? I had options! A good time was within reach! I went off Instagram, and onto—drumroll please—the apps. As true romantic, there’s never a time when I’m not scrolling through the apps hoping I’ll meet my weirdo, who is equally matched in wit and sex drive. That night, though, I was happy to settle for the latter.