Break up and dating

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Unlike the millennials, well-versed in selfie-sticks and duck face (I still don’t really know what that means), my photos, once completely up to par, now seemed to convey, in the poorly-lit pixels themselves, an overt lameness.But here’s where things really went south: As online dating grew less interested in me with every passing year, I grew more interested in me.My interests weren’t inherited, they were earned, textured with years of self-discovery.I woke up eager to spend the day writing, had an endless supply of captivating (albeit platonic) dinner dates, and organized trips with other untethered friends. Compared to my younger self, turning my life upside-down for any guy with a subscription and a vinyl habit, my time was my own, and I loved it.You felt cheated if you didn’t ghost at least once in a while, like someone who lets everyone else board the subway but never gets on themselves. By this time, apps had replaced desktop, browsing became swiping.

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Not only had I built a life I was proud of, I actually liked myself.Most often at parties, events, places where there was some mutual connection between you and the other person. If a stranger wrote his number on a napkin in Midtown, a connection was unlikely, but—like dates themselves—that was more an image from a movie than a real possibility.Because of this, there was always some level of accountability between you and your romantic interest.Instead of going to pains to compose thoughtful messages poking at a particular detail in their profile so the receiver would know we read it, we all just tossed out “heys” and hoped for the best.Between the laziness in follow-through and the fact that, chances were, one of us would likely disappear without a trace anyway, the whole charade snowballed into one big ball of I’d be remiss if I blamed it all on the apps.

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