Discover more from Chronicles of a Barfly
Its the same thing.
Everywhere you look.
Cogs and copies.
Tricks and traps.
Technology has become both a cure for crimes against humanity and a platform for their perpetration.
Posing as a plane of potential for you to meet the person of your dreams, but almost ensuring that your bloodline will not continue.
Millions of men are lulled in with promises of high class action from hot & horny singles in their area.
Lonely simps and middle aged mommas boys are their bread and butter.
Incels and only fans.
Capitalizing on an entire generation's collective fear of dying alone.
You already know how this plays out.
Love must be in the air.
Some young cutie must be dyyyying to meet you.
Let’s meet today’s contestant in your own warped rendition of The Dating Game.
Starring: Stock Photo Lady!
Hailing to us all the way from who the fuck knows. Fully equipped with an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, a mild-mannered disposition and a LinkedIn page that could make a Fortune 500 CEO hang their heads in shameful inadequecy.
The reality is this is just another sales pitch wearing too much eyeliner, clutching a knock off Coach handbag from last years fall-line collection.
Gloria is what she’s calling herself today. Last time you chatted, her name was Faith.
It appears she’s changed her major again. Now pre-law. According to this new bio, she just loves horses and long romantic walks on the beach while holding hands with someone special.
The day before yesterday, this same exact profile picture was a med-student named Heather, currently part of a residency at Seattle First Methodist. Huge cat fan.
You saw this picture a week ago too, but named Hope instead of Dawn. Slightly-altered generic details in the profile, vague but believable enough to hook a few gullible gents and apparently also effective enough to justify the effort.
You know the type.
Way too attractive to be making the first move in these scenarios.
Oh. What’s this?
Well, wouldn’t you know it. It seems as though Miss Gloria doesn’t typically peruse this aisle of potential suitors. Matter of fact, we were lucky to catch her when we did.
It’s apparently much easier to reach her somewhere else.
There are several variations and interpretations of the shitshow that follows. Elaborate tales of deceit, woven with the utmost care. Always built on false pretenses.
The little half-naked impromptu soap opera is all too familiar by this point. The durations usually range for as long as they hold your attention.
Not a second more.
Whatever they are today, whichever excuse they use, it’s not real. Never is, anymore.
None of that really matters now. It’s Showtime, baby.
At first, you challenge them to tell you something you’ve never heard.
“What?” She’ll say.
You plead with them again and again to dazzle you with a real gem, this time.
"Who’s Jim?" you’ll hear.
Last time it was your eyes. Today. She likes your hair.
Make me believe you.
Tell me you care.
Tell me you want me.
“My grandmother is really sick.”
“My dog just died.”
You beg them to lie to you so goddamn good, you’ll be speed dialing mother with the good news.
"What the fuck?" Another fan favorite response.
Make it feel real.
"...that credit card number though, baby?" From the resilient ones.
Through the sobs, you ask them to make you believe every single word.
“…my boyfriend beats me,” they’ll say.
Care for me so hard, my love.
The methodology and approach vary with each of the hopeful half-hearted levels of determination and previous experience, but have thus far remained united in one collective end goal: a hasty separation of you and your monetary assets.
Sorry to be the one to break it to you, Toots. You’ve got some competition.
Get in line, Sweetheart.
Take a number and take a seat, because much like Sweeps Week at the News-Station, it’s now or never to stand out from the masses, or fade into obscurity.
Come on, Baby. Make yourself matter for me. Nothing personal. It’s the way things are done now. It’s a numbers game, really. And we all know it.
Set yourself apart, or be set aside.
I mean, how many Beckys or Cindy’s can you meet before they all start to blend together as one?
There’s no clear distinction between the Clinical Psychiatry student at Brigham Young, or the Theatre Major from SDSU.
Aries? Or was it Capricorn?
East of the Mississippi? Homegrown in hay fields? Puerto Rican refugees. Swedish exchange students.
This causes mixed reactions.
That, or the cold rabid bunch who immediately sever connection so they can move on to the next Prince Charming, sometimes after a stern chastising by them towards you for wasting their time.
You always make sure to sound sincere in these cases, depending on your mood at the time and the effort expelled on their part, in regards to originality and enthusiasm.
You tell them what they want to hear and string them along, asking predetermined questions that reveal twice as much about them than they do you.
As soon as their charades cease to be amusing, read them the bullet points on the notes you’ve been taking throughout.
Things they might try to improve on for future schemes and con jobs, respectively, making it a point not to belittle them or revel in the fact that you won this round.
Rather, you take the opportunities to encourage them to pursue their endeavors and perhaps use their creativity for less unsavory forms of sustainability.
Not often but every once in a while some of them will actually thank you for your feedback and gracefully slip into the darkness with humility but honor.
I suppose there’s unspoken respect amongst thieves and liars.
Lastly, if they haven’t hung up yet, you encourage them to try again later to see how they are improving.
You’ve yet to have had any follow-throughs.