![]() My friend Peter had invited me to a dinner party hosted by a tech founder he’d grown up with in the Sunset, and with whom he’d once followed the band Phish around the country, selling nitrous poppers to concertgoers. They looked like models, and they had no sense of humor. Their skin was smooth and glowing, and they were uniformly tall and lean. ![]() ![]() The early blots had been easy to identify. Though I supposed there had always been risks. In the end, it seemed to come down to never dating again or taking the chance of being blotted. Years passed and nothing did happen, and I realized that without my intervention, my hand pushing the warm back of fate, it was possible nothing ever would. After my last breakup, I spent a while “letting something happen,” which meant doing nothing. But what choice did I have? Apps seemed to be the way everyone found each other these days. ![]() To further complicate matters, it was estimated that fifty per cent of men on dating apps in the city were now blots. I’d never liked the idea of finding a romantic partner on an app, the way you’d order pizza or an Uber. I resolved to pass judgment on several hundred men per day, and to make an effort to message the few I matched with. On my return to San Francisco from a bleak Thanksgiving with my surviving relatives in Illinois, I downloaded Tinder, Bumble, and a few other apps I’d seen Instagram ads for. ![]()
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