I'm the joke... I've been cursed. I've been damned—not with bad dates, but with good ones that never end. Like a rom-com stuck on repeat, my love life is an endless loop of 18-hour romances that begin with possibility and end in predictable silence. And before you whisper behind a block of blue light, “Girl, it’s called a one-night stand,” let me stop you right there. It’s really not. Really, not at all.
One-night stands are sexy and impromptu. It’s meeting a stranger in the backyard of Rocka Rolla one night and thinking to yourself, you don’t hate Murray Hill as much as you think you do. The 18-hour first date consists of shameful swiping and cringe-filled banter, with a “We’ve detected potentially inappropriate language. Do any of the messages above bother you?” pop-up eventually. The 18-hour first date has a lead-up of internet stalking and scenario conjuring. By the time the date rolls around, I’ve already invented him.
