Why people fail on Tinder (and Bumble)


Here’s what I don’t get about Tinder. And Bumble (I’m recently divorced—that’s a long story I’ll tell another time).

Yes: it’s amazing and convenient and smart to be able to easily view all the single people around you, read a little blurb about who they are (which is sometimes pretty fucking weird), and then if mutual interest occurs (swipe right x’s 2), chat a little and then meet, like for coffee, or drinks, or casual sex…

Maybe just coffee.

But what I don’t get is, if we both swipe right, have a funny/normal exchange on chat—and then I ask a girl out—why is it the last I ever hear from her? Like I mean, either ALL of the girls I want to date are cursed to silence or death as soon as I ask them out (the chance that this is true is exactly .0000000001%—and if it is, I’ll just assume Satan is winning), or I fail to meet the secondary eyeball test (as in: swipe right is the first quality check, meet up is #2… fucking is like, between 3 and 26).

The chance this is true is 99.9999999999%.

Seriously though, I’m having a hard time with this, especially since I lowered my standards.

But let’s back up. There are four basic reasons people fail on Tinder:

  1. Too many hot people.
  2. Over-valuation of one’s own hotness (or lack thereof).
  3. The Club Effect.
  4. Paralysis by analysis.

Too many hot people

Exactly. There are too many hot people. And who swipes right on the fucking hot people?


I mean, there are girls I have absolutely no business even breathing near on Tinder—but guess what? Swipe fucking right. There’s no cost, right? For one, no one that hot is EVER going to swipe right on me, so the intimidation that comes with talking to someone that’s soap-opera beautiful isn’t an issue. Two, if Jessica Rabbit actually does swipe right, that means I might have hit the fucking lottery, because she’s seen my pictures AND STILL WANTS TO TALK!


So anyway, everyone’s swiping right on the hotness, and because at least in theory, that hotness is an option, people up their standards—and feel as if they’ve swiped right enough times because they don’t take into account that at least 90% of the people they swiped on are out of their fucking league.

I mean I know it happens to me, and I’m fucking smart. Think about all the dummies out there!

(Note: I actually DON’T recommend thinking about all the dummies out there. It’s horribly depressing. Kind of amazing there aren’t more car wrecks.)

Over-valuation of one’s own hotness

We’ve all done it. Looked into the mirror in our underwear, thinking: “you handsome devil you—what with your slightly less flabby manboobs and that one-rung washboard stomach; why there’s even some definition in your arms…”

But it’s the bathroom mirror, which makes people look better than in real life for some reason. I’m convinced part of it’s that we don’t see ourselves like other people do, kind of like how it’s weird to hear your own voice. But most of it’s probably just the lighting.


Whatever the case, people overvalue their attractiveness. For example, there are plenty of women with incredibly beautiful faces—but a lot of them are overweight (and not just a little chubby—like, a lot), and therefore unattractive to most men.

Sorry, that’s just the truth. It is America after all.

But it’s true for dudes too. For example, I happen to be fairly handsome—and also overweight (which is why I’m on the goddamn Whole 30—trying to GET FIT). But my theory is that we take into account our facial appearance more so than the rest of our body, and this leads to an inflationary evaluation of one’s own hotness (which again, is why I’ve deliberately lowered my standards—more on this later).

The Club Effect

The Club Effect is simple: imagine a club full of drunk people in their 20’s. A larger percentage than normal—say 50% or more—are good looking, and 25% are real good looking. Like July in a swimsuit calendar levels of hotness.

And everyone’s full of booze or drugs or both and they’re running around from the bar to the bathroom to the dance floor to the table to the bar to the dance floor to the bar… you get it. Problem is, unless there’s a bachelorette party or some other random, unexpected spark-plug for hooking up (like if a stripper asks you to snort coke off her ass—DON’T DO IT *I’m nodding yes*), most everyone’s going home the same way they came: no midnight rodeo’s. No late night breakfast dates. Maybe not even a phone number.


Here’s why: there are enough people—and particularly enough attractive people—that no one has to make a decision. Dance with a girl here. Dance with another there. Sit in the booth talking to friends. Look at that girl over there… it doesn’t really matter, there are always more options.

Plus, choosing means you’re done, even if someone hotter walks in, which ironically means the people who do make a choice are still screwed, because someone hotter/more interesting/different could show up at anytime, ending whatever momentary bond existed between you and Brian (if that’s his real name)—that’s gone—because a blonde just came in who’s skirt is so short her vagina might fall out.

Paralysis by analysis

You can only get so far on six pictures and 500 characters. But that doesn’t stop people from trying. And based on conversations I’ve had with a number of people, that’s yet another place where the Tinder train goes off the rails.

To be 100% honest, I think this is more of a girl problem than a guy problem. Honestly, as a guy, I think it’s fair to just come out and say it: the blurb doesn’t really matter as long as she’s good looking enough to swipe right—what the blurb can do is break a tie.

Maybe it’s the same for some women, but I’ve been experimenting with my own blurb, and it does seem to matter. The texting that follows matters too, and if one little thing is off, as in it could prompt a “that seems weird” or “creeper status” or “who says that” kind of reaction, you’re done. Keep in mind, I haven’t changed my photos, nor have I said anything nearly as outlandish as I have here—and yet, the rate of matching varies incredibly based on the text.

My guess is it’s yet another manifestation of the princess complex—the notion we plant in the heads of little girls (and continuing right on through high school) that life is perfect, and the man they meet won’t be too hot or too cold, but just right.

Problem is, if you’re specifically looking for reasons to disqualify people, you’re going to find them. Plus, jokes and personality often don’t translate well in text, especially if you’re given only 500 characters—or texting back and forth with someone you’ve never met. Nevertheless, that’s what Tinder gives you, and I fear some people make the most of it—in the worst possible way.

And that, Charlie Brown, is why people fail on Tinder. There are too many hot people, everyone overvalues their own hotness, The Club Effect means there’s an emphasis on searching, not finding, and paralysis by analysis kills it all. Although, I’m sure the hotter you are, the less any of this matters.

Anyway, in an effort to combat these factors, I lowered my standards. It used to be 7’s and above: swipe right. I’ve now dropped the threshold down to 5+’s—as in, average, but there’s something attractive or interesting or unique about them (definitely not the fact she put a horse head over her own in one of her pictures—I don’t know what that’s about, but like 5% of girls do that and it’s really fucking weird. Also, flipping off the camera is so fucking tired. I get that at one time it was cool, but that time has passed—swipe left).


(Weird, right?)

To give you a reference, I’d like to think I’m a 7+ (handsome with awesome biceps), but as I know we tend to overvalue our own hotness, I take it I come off as a 6 (tall, a little better than decent looking, but slightly overweight). As a guy, what makes this hard is you sometimes see 6’s walk around with 8+’s or even 9’s, and then you think you can attain that (in fact, I was one of those guys—until I got divorced).

But you can’t. So 5+’s it is—and oh by the way, I get that using a number to represent a human being is degrading, but we’re talking about fucking Tinder, which is one of the most degrading things possible. Think about it: it’s a dating app where if you don’t match very often (yours truly), it’s because people don’t think you’re good looking enough. And you’re reminded of that fact.


Aside from that, let’s everyone go ahead and get off our high horse. Don’t apologize for who you are, and don’t ask anyone else to apologize for who they are. In most cases, no one gives the slightest fuck, one way or the other. I can’t stand the whiny feminist who’s bitches about the negativity of the male gaze anymore than I can the person who voted for Trump out of spite because they’re mad at liberals who correctly tell them they’re voting against their own best interests.

The fact of the matter is that some groups of people, whether it’s race, sex, class, etc., have it harder than others—people who suggest otherwise are just assholes. At the same time, if you’re in one of those groups, going around actively looking for reasons to play the victim is a mental trap that undermines what you think you’re fighting for.

We’re all human. We all make mistakes. So please, for the love of God, stop being so sensitive.

Oh, and being single means you’re objectifying people. All the time. And that’s OK. It’s OK for people to be attracted to how someone looks. Or not. Using a number just quantifies it—and even that’s subjective.


So anyway, I matched with this girl, solidly a 5+, and we had a great conversation—I thought at least (we talked about aioli and eating crab, which we agreed is the bacon of the sea—sorry, West coast bias). And then I asked her out and never heard from her again.


(Sea Bacon)

I didn’t make the second cut.

I shouldn’t be surprised really, because no one on Tinder owes anyone else on Tinder a damn thing (actually I think it was Bumble, but same difference), but when it’s a girl you’re only halfway attracted to in the first place, a girl you just hope happens to have an amazing personality and looks a little better in person than she does in the photos… I mean, that’s a swift kick in the balls, friends. I’m metaphorically hunched over with pain in my stomach, coughing.

Still coughing.

I don’t get it. I honestly thought I’d have less competition by dropping down to the 5+ level, but apparently not. Either that or I’m fooling myself.

Although, there’s always the small chance Satan is winning. I mean: Trump, Brexit, the Patriots winning the Super Bowl in the most amazing comeback ever, Nazi’s… again, 5+’s won’t date me…

Yeah, pretty sure that’s it.

If you liked this, you’ll love my book, Cherry City Pulp–the ultimate satire and classic American novel rolled into one. Hope you enjoyed the read. If not, swipe left.

The 7 Girls You Meet on Tinder/Bumble

04-052834-guys_and_girls_try_tinder_for_the_first_time1) THE SWEETHEART AKA PRINCESS PEACH

The only reason this girl isn’t married is because we, men, are assholes.

No, in all seriousness, this girl is a catch: she’s pretty, smart, has a good job, goes on hikes, loves IPA and whiskey, except for… something.

Something that keeps guys from swiping right, buying in, settling down.

I won’t get into specific reasons, because I don’t want to objectify women any more than I’m already going to, but let’s suffice to say it’s some sort of asymmetry. After all, that’s what beauty is: “a face and body that’s proportional. Symmetrical.”

However, sweetheart’s blind to this—or at least unaware of it’s effect on possible suitors, because of something I call the princess complex.


The Princess Complex

See, a lot of little girls growing up in our lovely post-modern society were raised as daddy’s little princess. Think pretty pink week-long birthday celebrations, ponies, shopping sprees, cute purses and cars—whatever she wants. In exchange, princess has to be fairly obedient, pretty, and “normal.”

It’s not done out of any mal-intent—in fact, it’s done out of love—but it screws up Princesses’ compass of expectations. And as the universal law of relativity deems, the higher your expectations, the more things are going to seem shitty–the more likely expectations go unmet.

The problem for princess is she’s holding out for a Prince Charming she’s just not quite capable of landing. Yes, Dr. Squarejaw Responsible Muscles is out there, but he’s probably going to date Ms. Prettyface Tightbody, and Princess just isn’t quite there.

Kids and Divorce

The other things, aside from asymmetry and unrealistic expectations that explain why Sweetheart is out there, are kids and divorce. For some people that’s a deal breaker—especially the kids. What’s interesting is that it’s even a deal breaker for some women (Queens) who themselves have kids and/or are divorced—and as ridiculous as it seems to me: a guy who’s got one of each—it’s a line many singles just aren’t willing to cross.


Now please keep in mind, just because a girl is a sweetheart/princess doesn’t mean there’s anything particularly wrong with her. In fact, there probably isn’t. There are less attractive married women who were more picky about who they married. But the fact is our society is bad at pairing people up, and we’re not particularly great at making people either: poverty, alienation, the digitization of society, unproductive busyness (yes that’s a word, I just looked it up)—these are real things with ugly consequences.

But for all that, it’s a good thing Princess is out there—if you’re looking for the whole house-in-the-burbs-2.5 kids-dog/cat-white-picket-fence thing, she’s the one you want.


Based on my observations, approximately 80% of all women have done yoga, 50% do it often, and a full 20% are yoga instructors.

It also says to John Q. Prospect: I’m in shape, I wear tight clothes… and I’m flexible.

Hey yo!

And so we get to Yogi Barre’s profile: six pictures, three or more in some sort of pose or practice, preferably at least one showing off her ass in yoga pants (and I’m not complaining—that’s a good time for everyone).


The other pictures will be some combination of the following:

  • Wearing dresses that look as though they’ve been designed by a cross of Micheal Kors and the guy in the Revenant.
  • Artistic, involving one or more of the following items: rainbows, triangles, mirrors, windows, frames (both door and window), and/or clocks.
  • At a concert, usually outside, dressed as a hippie—perhaps even holding up some sort of peace symbol.
  • Drinking wine—or wine tasting—in yoga pants.
  • An outdoor pastoral from the awesome hike she took last week with Shay, who’s from South Africa and wears burlap shirts.

Oh, and she’ll almost certainly have one or more with her tattoos.

Here’s the thing: Yogi Barre is sometimes a great match. Just keep in mind, she might end up being pretty weird—not even necessarily in bad ways—just plain weird. We’re talking face crystal piercings, body paint, Mahayana Buddhism, strange music, open/poly relationships, Wiccan rituals, dietary restrictions, etc. Honestly, I can deal with any one or two of those things, but when a girl’s on a strict diet of avocado, hemp-oil, kale smoothies, has to have 17 candles lit at all times, and wants you to hum ancient sutras to her as she wakes up to natural sunlight each morning, spreading her arms to reveal thick bushes of pit hair, that might be a problem.

After all, there is still bacon.

Point is, you have to know where to draw the line. Attractive, five tattoos, and likes to hike—swipe right. Attractive, six cats, a goat, and a partial face tattoo—swipe left.


This is the girl who’s got three or more pictures of herself in: her bra/underwear, a bikini, a strap they’ve somehow turned into a dress, and/or naked but covering the nipples/vagina/ass. I’ve even seen a few girls bending over in a thong. And I have to admit, the dirty bastard in me—in every man—thanks those ladies.


However, in all seriousness ladies: think about who is actually going to swipe right here? Not Dr. Squarejaw Responsible Muscles, Johnny America, or Aiden Prettyboy. Those guys are swiping left, because they don’t want a girlfriend who’ll show her ass to their friends when he leaves to go to the bathrooom… or worse. Only Hookup McBrofield swipes right on these profiles, and I won’t lie there’s a lot of those guys out there.

But bro’s, beware: a girl who’s willing to show multiple scandalous pictures of herself to every dude in a 20 mile radius wants something. Most often it’s probably some sugar because money makes the world go round, but it could be she wants a daddy, a sugar daddy, a caretaker, as much attention from as many dudes as possible, or a combination of all the above.

Swipe left.

4) Passive-Aggressive Emily


Passive-Aggressive Emily has a lot of baggage which she feels the need to share with everyone on her profile. For example, the phrase:

“Looking for mature, responsible, adults.”

Did you forget you’re on Tinder? There are fucking robots on Tinder. And a whole lot of douchebags. This is why you get to swipe right or left.

Let’s also parse out what this means. It means:

A) the last guy didn’t want a serious relationship OR,

B) he was a manchild.

If it’s the latter, run away now and don’t look back.

If a guy’s 41, vacations with his parents, spends more than two days a week kite-surfing (sorry Steve, if you ever read this…), and doesn’t offer to pay on the first date, he’s probably a manchild. In fact, I might be a manchild, and trust me, we’re no good.

We’re just not ready to be what most women want in a relationship. And that’s a two-way street: to begin with, men are pussies compared to what we used to be.

Come on guys, let’s just admit it. We’d rather play video games or drink beer and watch football than spend our weekends rebuilding an engine, landscaping the yard, or DIYing new hard wood floors. We’re used to playing more than our dads got to—it’s akin to what they did to our sisters, who were princessed into unrealistic expectations and a disappointing world view.

On the other side, however, is the fucking heroic expectations princesses have for men these days. Their dads and moms always did everything for them, including cooking, cleaning, washing, and making them feel extra special all the time. Well guess what—now they want us to play that role, and the fact is: we can’t. We can’t both coddle them at every moment of the day and at the same time satisfy our need, as humans, to thrive, create, and explore our ambitions. Keep in mind, what Princess is asking for is far cry from our mothers, who were at least willing to play second fiddle at times if it was necessary for the family. But no more! Goldilocks will have her porridge served just right.

So it’s both:

A) manchildren aren’t ready to do what’s needed to be married, and

B) for some women, the expectations they’ve set for a relationship are beyond what’s reasonable.

If it’s the guy was perfectly fine, but just didn’t want a serious relationship thing, maybe the problem isn’t that all men in the world are horrible people.

Maybe the problem is that Emily’s choosing the wrong kinds of guys.

You know: that super hot black guy you’ve been chatting with who says he’s in the music industry, as beautiful a human as there is, abs and arms perfectly chiseled, that charming smile somewhere between aggressive and inviting, the way you picture him biting his lip…


Sorry girl, but he’s going to fuck you–and then he’s going to leave you. And it’s almost not even his fault. Like, this dude can sleep with basically whoever he wants… everyday.

That’s pretty hard to walk away from.

And he doesn’t have to be black.

Maybe he’s a German blonde dude who hikes all the time and works as an engineer, but what looks engineered are his pecs… or someone like Barney from How I Married Your Mother: a smarmy fucker who’s just so slick and good looking, charm oozing from his every pore… do you get my point? If a guy is good looking enough to the point where even really hot girls will date him no question, there’s a strong chance he’s not married on purpose.

Because he’s hooking up all the time.

I knew a couple guys like this in college: Derek and Don.

Derek is the guy every girl wants to marry: Japanime handsome with liquid brown eyes, 6’5”, thin, but muscular and athletic with strong shoulders—and on top of all that, the nicest guy you could ever ask for. This allowed him to fuck girls bent over large rocks on hikes in the Sierra’s—and I mean: beautiful, Barbie-doll, Southern California belles.

Don was more of a Barney: knew everyone who was anyone, knew everything about anything, was incredibly worldly, had an absolutely magnetic smile and laugh. He was taller than average with a quarterback’s build and more swag than a white boy has any business running around with.

Anyway ladies, if you’re dating one of those dudes… yeah sorry, but they’re probably not going to want to settle down, because they can sleep with girls like you whenever they want. Which leads us to Passive Aggressive Emily catchphrase #2:

“No hookups.”

There’s no need to say this.

It’s implicit.

The girls who are looking to hookup say so, right on their profile. And again, if you don’t want to hookup, don’t. Hookup McBrofield isn’t going to hang around for more than two or three dates if there isn’t some physical action leading him to believe the coach is going to waive him home eventually.

What’s crazy is that some form of that quote appears on, I would guess, 1/2 or more of all female profiles—which means Hookup McBrofield is a lot more successful than he ought to be.

“Financially successful, looking for the same.”

AKA “poor men need not apply.”

Isn’t this a little old-fashioned? I mean, we live in the modern world: men don’t have to be the breadwinners. Just like women don’t have to stay home, cook, clean, and take care of children.

It’s OK.

Besides Emily, you’re already claiming to be doing quite well thank you very much. Would you look down on an engineer who married a hairdresser if they had a great connection and truly loved each other? No. So why would it be so terrible for you to marry a bartender who wanted nothing more than to be a father?

That’s the counter-factual: suppose you meet a super nice guy you find attractive, get along with, and respect—but he has a lot of debt in student loans or went through a bad divorce. Remember, you’re on Tinder. It’s not as if Doctor Squarejaw Responsible Muscles is in your immediate future. So really, you’re prepared to throw away a person you could date long term—or even marry—because he isn’t rich/has a kid/is divorced?

That seems pretty dumb, and a good way to stay lonely.

“Can’t believe I’m on here.”

Yeah, well you fucking are.

So get over it.

Besides, don’t be so hard on yourself—or the rest of us. As I mentioned earlier, there are a lot of reasons our society’s bad at pairing people up, but for now, this is how things are. I mean, how else are single adults supposed to meet people? We’re not supposed to date people at work, and with all of life’s little chores: cooking, cleaning, paying bills, working out, etc., how is anyone going to meet anybody?

Hell, we should be thankful for Tinder and Bumble (and Coffee meets Bagel—which is the dumbest fucking name for a dating sight I’ve ever heard of). There are tons of people on the apps and it’s actually a super convenient way to meet people.

So stop with the self-pity and get swiping.


She’s got a picture next to graffiti that’s some iteration of “fuck you.” In the next one she’s flipping off the camera. Now she’s got a gun or knife. She, at some point, has shaved her head. And she promises that if you meet, she’ll kick you in the balls.


Swipe left, gentlemen, swipe left.

Do women today have plenty of reasons to be angry, to want to smash the patriarchy and all that shit?

Unequivocally, yes.

But ostensibly, everyone knows that on a dating profile, you’re supposed to put your best foot forward, and that doesn’t include pictures of the time you got drunk with some lesbians and used a sword to cut the head off a cardboard cutout of Tom Brady while wearing a mask with ISIS written on it.

It’s kind of like a guy who’s pictures include two with guns, at least one with a large, dead animal, one wearing camo, and several with a “Make America Great Again” or cowboy hat atop his balding dome. Maybe that’s really who they are, but to girls, that guy is scary and aggressive—the kind of guy who won’t stop fucking once he starts.

Angry Val is like that for dudes: I don’t need to try to please someone who hates everyone with a dick—because I happen to have one of those.

Swipe left.


She’s on a quad. Now holding up the head of a 6-point buck with a bullet hole through it’s neck. Wow that’s a big fucking pike. That’s a… oh, a gun range. And that must be her dad. Kind of looks like a cross between Dwayne Johnson and Harvey Keitel. Angry, skeptical—and big and mean enough to do something about it.

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Now I’m not going to lie, if you like to fish and be outdoors, this little darlin’ can be pretty damned alluring. Just remember a couple things: her dad won’t approve of you, and he’ll at least casually infer you’re a pussy from time to time.

I mean there’s a difference between you and him.

Like for example, you read—as evidenced by the fact your 2,512 words into an essay about Tinder.

He, on the other hand, get’s his information from Fox News and whoever happens to be at The Red Barn, the local dive bar where everyone smokes or used to, and they all pretend it’s the 1950’s.

You drink IPA—he drinks Coors.

You play fantasy football—he shoots varmints on his property.

Catch my drift?

Thing is, Annie’s all about that. So you better get used to drinking and shooting and getting your hands dirty or swipe left, pretty boy, swipe left.


She’s drab, average, quiet; likes to read and drink coffee. She’ll have a drink, but only one—two if it’s a special occasion. There’s cat hair on every sweater she owns and she can’t wait to go to the thrift store to buy some vintage pants to go with them. She gardens or sews or bakes, maybe even two out of three.


You guessed it—that semi-colon was for you NPR nerd girl. What with your ethically sourced coffee and backyard chickens. The question here is if it’s in the extreme—kind of like Yogi Barre. Too much crunchiness and it’s kind of weird.

Like no, I’m not OK with you not shaving your legs. I get that it’s kind of a silly tradition we have in our culture, and that it’s a huge pain in the ass, but I’ve gotten used to girls with smooth legs, and that’s how I like it. Also, if you’re going to bitch about the negative implications of the male gaze, I’m out. Again, sorry, but I’m a male and I enjoy looking at women… because I’m sexually attracted to… women. Remember, all we are is really evolved animals…

And, as it turns out, biology is still a thing.

Alas… I digress, although that’s the last of my list.

Now please, before I get a bunch of hate mail and complaints, remember, these are just caricatures of people—most girls are a combination of several types and others are something else entirely. And for the record, I think women are generally kinder, smarter, better people than men.

So if you’re upset, you didn’t get it.

Stay classy you crazy fucking kids.

If you enjoyed this, please share with friends via email and/or social media–also, sign up for our newsletter. My last ask is to check out my new novel, Cherry City Pulp, which is about life, Oregon, millennials, love, sex, booze, baseball, and ultimately, a mass shooting. Cheery right? I also occasionally publish on Medium.

What is a Manchild?

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Q: So… what is a manchild?

A: an insult.

Indeed, its use in our culture has been wide and varied, but let’s start with a general definition.

A manchild is a male adult who does not behave like a male adult. Or, to be more specific, he doesn’t satisfy the qualities society at large would like to see in a male adult…

As in, he:

  • Does not know how to change the oil in his car.
  • Plays video games regularly.
  • Doesn’t own a respectable set of tools.
  • Doesn’t DIY home improvement projects—instead, DIY’s his fantasy football league while drinking beer at Buffalo Wild Wings and making immature comments about the waitresses, though lacking the confidence to hit on or approach said waitresses.
  • Does not want to get married and/or have kids (sometimes fooled into doing this anyway).
  • Does not take the bull by the horns, lacks motivation, and is generally pathetic save for his boyish good looks and the fact he has a decent job.

As far as demographics go, he’s probably white (although not always), comes from a middle to upper class family, and is into sports, video games, comics, porn, nerdy board games, and/or some sort of all consuming outdoor recreational activity.

The manchild confounds modern society in a number of ways.

  • He’s not on #ThePlan, which is hard for a lot of people to understand. “Wait, what? You don’t want to get married, buy a house, have 2.5 kids, 0.8 dogs/cats, and a white picket fence? What’s that kind of thing going to do to my HomeDepot stock?”
  • He’s not on #ThePlan, while most women his age are, and this too is confounding. “Wait what? You don’t want … and a white picket fence? How many losers are like you out there, and is there some way to identify them before I go on a date with, gulp, a manchild?
  • No, because although the manchild is unlike other men in most ways, he still wants to get laid and has enough of a sex drive to do something about it. Plus, there’s JCrew and a bunch of other stores allowing the manchild to look like straightgayman (an incredibly well dressed man who’s straight and normal—basically the unicorn of the female dating world).
  • Manchild is smart, unlike the meatheads young men are portrayed to be on most television shows. He’s not a manchild because he lacks the intellect or ability to be a mandult—he’s a manchild because he chooses to play rather than work, or become a slave to #ThePlan.

I know this… because I, myself, am a manchild.

Now look, I tried to go with #ThePlan. I was married for six years, had a kid—everything. Hell, I even did most of the cooking and cleaning and childcare while that was going on (my wife was a doctor in residency)… but alas, it was too much.

I won’t go into the gory details of my divorce (you’ll have to read my next book for that), but the split was as amicable as one could hope for given the circumstances and I dearly love my son—I’m a mandult during time I’ve got him.

But let me just say, the rest of it—relapsing back into a manchild—has been quite lovely.

This blog is dedicated to cataloging my re-entry into the world of dating, women, single parenthood, and observations about society in general. I’ll try not to take things too seriously, and neither should you…

After all, there is still bacon.