Once again I find myself pushing off this column until the last possible moment, only to wave it around to my colleagues in a desperate attempt to convince them that, no, I have not lost my creative touch and yes, I am still the shiny new editor they hired nearly a year ago. 

I may have become haggard and rusty over this editorship and I am in a state of denial about the condition of my mental sanity but alas, we persist. 

It goes without saying that burnout is real and it happens to us all at one point or another. Not to use this column to complain, but to complain real quick: I have been running on fumes for the better part of five-ish months and slowly feel myself crumbling into a pile of dust to be swept away betwixt the cracks of Sadleir House. I am not sleeping, headaches are a constant presence, and BlackBoard has been blowing up my phone like an unstable ex-boyfriend. 

Naturally, the correct course of action would be to face these piling tasks (folding laundry) so as not to feel like you have been shot in the face (answering emails) and deflate in the face of responsibilities. Am I not just a girl, after all? 

As one does, perusing various dating apps—which is sure to be a form of self-harm—has become my distraction of choice from the academic and professional hell in which I presently reside. But because this column is about my fat little guy who lives a far more charmed life than I, let’s pretend—for all intents and purposes—that Gator Goes Dating!

A brief word on The Big Three of the dating app ecosystem: Tinder is for hookups, Bumble is for “I like you but not enough to date you but just enough to waste two months of your life”, and Hinge is where hopes and youthful optimism go to die. With this in mind, Gator, who has been feeling rather lonesome this winter, tried his luck in an attempt to secure a romantic, monogamous, partnership.

He did, however, start experiencing a severe mental health crisis after five minutes on Tinder and was left wondering why men over the age of twenty-one still use Snapchat, which leaves the other two cesspools the subject of this lively adventure. 

As a man, Gator was awarded the privilege of building a vague profile with sole reliance on the most handsomest of photos (regardless of how dated they may be, he is my angel baby) to lure in potential suitors. After all, Gator quickly realized that as a man, one merely sells themselves through photos demonstrating just how douchey one can look at The Social, or various pictures holding up a fish that must, somehow, be impressive? Gator is not like every other cat, and instead opted to just include the basics. 

Bumble was Gator’s first poison of choice. After swiping for a few minutes and dodging various “🌶️ Sex Positivity”, and “Looking for a third” profiles, a suitor arrived in his beeline! This cat, who shall remain anonymous for the sake of this very real and not fictional encounter, charmed our favourite little guy enough to meet at everyone’s favourite first-date dive: Cork & Bean. However, what seemed like a pleasant first date with a bright future for our innocent little guy, quickly turned out to be a recruitment exercise in idol worship for Trent’s Philosophy department. Alas, nihilism is a nasty disease which Gator has no intentions of catching. 

Feeling rather sad and disappointed, Gator trudged his hopes and dreams over to Hinge. Here, Gator found the dating pool somewhat more sophisticated, if also catastrophically boring. Not one to make grand assumptions (unlike his mother), he agreed to dinner with a young gentleman who “makes a mean pot of KD.” This macaroni enthusiast opted to make a reservation for 8 p.m. at Riley’s for the two of them, which consisted of an awkward meal with little conversation and an ambient of pool balls clanking in the background. 

After finishing his glass of wine and most of his chicken caesar salad, Gator decided to split the bill and end the date early so as not to accidentally commit a crime. This, however, was not before his date asked Gator to join his pickleball team. Gator was shocked the man spoke, but more so that he was perceived as someone who enjoys pickleball.

Feeling even more deflated, Gator is ready to finally give into his hermit-like tendencies and disappear into the woods for like, ever, and write cute little manifestos until climate change finally gets us. 

Have a dating horror story? Let me know at editors@trentarthur.ca to receive a Gator pic in solidarity. Bonus points should it involve one of my co-editors.