About the Time I Went on a Bumble Date and Considered Faking My Own Death
Buckle up. This is a horror ride. And a long one at that.
I’ve been on a lot of first dates.
Like, a lot.
Like, “my Bumble algorithm thinks I’m collecting men for sport” levels of a lot.
Like, if you stacked all my first dates on top of each other, they could probably reach the moon.
Or at least a mid-tier Ryanair airport.
People say dating is an adventure.
And I agree—if that adventure is a scavenger hunt for the bare minimum.
Let me walk you through the highlight reel of trauma. And please, do not trauma dump back on my blog. This is about me and the unhinged men I’ve come across. And no, it’s not all of them. I’ve had some LOVELY first dates (looking at you M from Germany - call me). No, this is the highlight reel of dating horror stories that make me want to kill myself.
Playa del Carmen, Mexico:
Met a hot Portuguese guy who had great beach abs and big red flag energy. We’re two beers in, vibing under string lights like a Corona commercial, when I order a third beer. He looks me dead in the eye and says:
“Are you sure? A third beer? On a week day?”
I AM SORRY, SIR, DO I HAVE SCHOOL TOMORROW OR SOMETHING? I drank it aggressively, ordered a fourth, and told him to go home. Then I ghosted him so hard I’m now officially haunting Lisbon.
Madrid, Spain:
Met a tall Dutch guy. Great smile. Terrible instincts. Halfway through dinner, this man—this grown-ass man—removes his shoes under the table and proceeds to rub his feet against my bare legs like we were starring in Quentin Tarantino’s European Vacation.
I froze, internally panicking: Is this foreplay in the Netherlands?
Then he leaned in, smiled, and said, “You should come back to mine.”
Sir, I don’t go home with men who exfoliate me with their toe knuckles during dinner. And THEN ask me to split the bill.
Santorini, Greece:
Ah, the beautiful Greek man. The one who almost restored my faith in dating.
He picked me up on a scooter, gave me a tour of the island like we were in a Lizzie Maguire induced dream, kissed me at sunset, and said he had to see me again tomorrow.
Plot twist: tomorrow came and went and I never saw him again.
I should’ve thrown myself into the caldera. Instead, I drowned my feelings in feta and shouted “OPA” every time a man walked by to feel something.
Back in Mexico:
Went on a date with a local guy who said, “Let’s grab tea.” Cute, right?
We meet at a Starbucks (okay, fine), he orders for both of us (weird, but okay), and then WHIPS OUT A TINY BOTTLE OF RUM FROM HIS BACKPACK LIKE WE’RE ON A 10TH GRADE FIELD TRIP.
He pours it into our cups and goes, “Now it’s a party.”
Sir. This is a mall. There is a Forever 21 behind me. I am not your co-conspirator in suburban tea crimes.
And then… there was Taco Bell Guy.
In Madrid.
A Spanish man. Who, upon learning I was Mexican, said:
“I have the perfect first date idea. We go to Taco Bell. You’ll feel right at home.”
I want you to sit with that for a moment.
I am MEXICAN.
This man thought my cultural equivalent of romance was Taco Bell in Spain.
The coloniser audacity.
Mauritius Island, Indian man edition:
We hook up. Afterwards, this man looks me dead in the eye and says:
“Do you have… something? Like… something I could get from you?”
I, very confused, ask if he means a toothbrush or snack.
No.
He read online that Mexican women are sluts and assumed I had an STD to gift him.
I did not slap him. I simply left stared and left. And later hexed him using an old Frida Kahlo candle and bad juju.
The Argentinian Philosopher:
Oh, my favorite. We go on our first date.
I finally ask: “So… what are you looking for here?”
He smiles, looks me in the eye with all the wisdom of a man who owns zero bath towels and says:
“I’m the man you date before you meet the one.”
Okay, Buddha.
Thank you for your service. Now vanish like your job prospects.
And the Irish Poem in Liechtenstein:
We go on a sweet date. It’s cute. Unexpected. Met him at the Prince’s vineyard. I mean - our wedding there would’ve been epic. Officiated by the Prince of Liechtenstein himself.
The next day, he shows up uninvited at my Airbnb, kisses me, and says:
“If the mountain doesn’t go to Mohammed, Mohammed comes to the mountain.”
Then BLOCKS me on WhatsApp.
Sir, that was not a mountain. That was my damn rental. And you’re emotionally unstable.
At this point, I’m convinced I’ve dated someone from every country in the world and all I’ve gotten in return is a spicy mix of PTSD and hilarious WhatsApp screenshots.
I’ve considered many things to escape this hellscape of male mediocrity.
Changing my name.
Moving to a convent.
Faking my own death and starting over in Greece (but the Greek guy would probably ghost me again).
But I won’t give up.
Because maybe—just maybe—there’s a man out there who won’t judge me for a third beer, keep his damn shoes on, doesn’t bring pocket alcohol to corporate coffee chains, and understands that Mexican food in Spain is a hate crime.
Until then, I’ll be here. Swiping. Screaming. Writing.
And possibly setting up a Bumble date at IKEA, because at least I know there’ll be meatballs and emotional support lighting.
