Love Me Tinder lives!

Beware the man who seems perfect but who is holding a protein shaker like a trophy!

Well, daters, here we are. You cheered for me in The Porch Pact, you begged for more, and now you’ve got it: Love Me Tinder is officially live!

Here’s the thing: our girl Amy found her person. True love. Floopy butterflies. Porch-worthy romance. She’s all set, which is wonderful for her (ugh, gross, happily-ever-after). But just because Amy’s wrapped up in her rom-com ending doesn’t mean the rest of us have stopped colliding with dating disasters on the daily. Someone has to keep documenting the madness, and spoiler alert - it’s me.

So welcome to my corner of the internet, where I sip prosecco and report back from the wild west of modern romance. Expect equal parts horror story, comedy sketch, and unsolicited advice column.

Case in point: the Heinous Date of the Week

A friend of mine recently matched with “Theo, 46, successful, fun, family guy.” The trifecta!

Or so we thought.

Theo shows up twenty minutes late, sweating like he sprinted there, except it was just arm day. He proudly flexes at the table while ordering six hard-boiled eggs “protein-style.”

By drink one, he’s explaining how all his exes were “crazy.” By drink two, he’s insisting women shouldn’t drink beer because it not only comes off as manly, but it “causes bloat” (as he polishes off his third IPA). By drink three, he’s scrolling through shirtless gym selfies, showing them off like they’re family portraits.

The grand finale? Brad leans in, lowers his voice like he’s about to whisper sweet nothings, and says: “You seem like you’d be low maintenance. That’s hot.”

You may be asking why she came off as low maintenance? Well, she hadn't exactly had a chance to get a word in, much less set any boundaries or describe herself in any way.

Reader, she bolted before dessert.

So that’s why Love Me Tinder exists: because while Amy gets her fairytale, the rest of us daters are still dodging Brads, Chads, and Theos, not to mention men who think flexing counts as foreplay.

Here’s where you come in: if you’ve got your own heinous date to share, send it to me. Names will be changed, but the shame will be eternal. Think of it as a community service! One story at a time, we save daters everywhere from wasting mascara (or gas money) on red flags.

Dating horror stories from the shes, the hes, and the theys (seriously, it doesn’t matter who you’re dating. If it was cringe, confusing, or catastrophic - spill it) can be sent in here.

💋 Poppy

Until next swipe…