The writing of a dating app bio

Being prone to dropping my standards at the very hint of finding someone attractive, I generally make it a point to never swipe on profiles that don’t have a bio. To save whatever little crumby self-esteem I have.

Same time, I deeply empathize with people who don’t have one.

Writing a dating app bio is one of the most daunting and loathsome tasks for a 21st-century human.

Given the general routine of overthinking and self-deprecation, it’s not that I don’t know the depths of my being and cannot state it in mere words. But it’s my unexciting personality that makes it extra difficult.

What is it that in my meme snorting, Netflix hogging, bar-beach-mountain trotting ass can write to stand out in the ocean of sameness? Most of us live to please and therefore end up with the same bland amalgamation of pop-culture traits, with cherry-picked hobbies to not seem dull at the get-go.

Anyways, the algorithms are feeding our minds with the same damn content every day with slight variations in personal preferences, which means most of us are going to keep running into our personality doppelgangers most of the time. Then what’s the point of pretending otherwise?

Then it’s all a game of who can infuse the most charm and intrigue into their bios and scam the fuck out of everyone.

Turns out after all the effort of summing my being into a para, I find it so boring that I feel like rejecting myself that very instant. Fuck dating, now I’m just hating myself. The exercise that was meant to portray me as a goddamn ovary shaking, panty wetting god, usually only makes me realize I have the personality of a dim-witted troll.

After writing god-knows-how-many dating app bios for myself, I know it for a fact that consuming a lethal dose of cyanide would still be far less painful than reading your own bio.

That’s probably why some people choose to get it written by their friends. Damn, smart-asses! Much easier to hate a friend than yourself.

Reading people’s dating app bios is a more sure and sincere way to monkhood.

Most of them are just dead descriptions of dead-frikkin-souls. The same dungheap of coffee, books, biryani, and film-loving dimwits showing off their tanned, travelled and well-moisturized asses, photographed in cliché cities and cliché places as if life is nothing but a race to pick up these cliché experiences. They keep proclaiming their quest for a deeper, more meaningful interaction between two human beings as if they’ve completely overcome their shallowness.

Dullness. Sameness. Polished dumbness.

Rarely do you come across someone with a spark. Sometimes so rarely, that you even forget what it is to have a spark.

God, these days I love the straightforward ones the most. No faff, no promise of mystery, no grandiosity. Fuck the narcissism and the attempt to decorate our rotten selves with borrowed interestingness.

Simplicity will do.

Sometimes a humble MBTI type, four fucking characters, tells you infinitely more about the person than some flowery crap that they dish out.

Stop trying to be the shining epitome of human existence.

Just embrace your crap, now that’s fuckin attractive.

Maybe, the ancient storytellers didn’t have to conjure all the myths about the hero’s journey and all that, if they had dating apps back then.

All your hero had to do is start typing his bio, and by the end, he shall discover his true nature.

His abhorrent basicness.