The thumb moves without permission. Left. Left. A blurry photo of a man holding a fish. Left. A group shot where you can’t tell who he is. Left. The screen is slick and warm under my thumb, the only warmth in the entire transaction. Each flick is a tiny, silent judgment, a dismissal of a life I will never know, all happening while I’m sitting here, waiting for the coffee to brew. It’s a sorting mechanism, not a search for connection. It feels less like dating and more like clearing an inbox full of spam, each message promising a prize but delivering only a pixelated void.

We were promised a solution to loneliness, a digital cupid using sophisticated algorithms to find our other half. What we got was a catalog. It’s the Sears Wish Book for humans, delivered to the glowing screen we hold 7 inches from our face. Remember those? Flipping through pages of perfectly staged products, circling the ones you wanted, knowing you could never have them all. The difference is that the products in this catalog can swipe left on you, too. The catalog judges you back.

The Flattening of Thomas J.P.

Last night, I came across Thomas J.P. His profile was… adequate. He was 47. His first picture showed him with a golden retriever, a move so common it’s practically a