I read over the profile they created and I smile as an idea rolls around in my head. I’m going to prove just how shallow and fickle men really are.
I open my computer, go back to the profile, and I change my answers.
Name
Pinkie Leroo
Height
On point
Weight
Pretty face
Appearance
Below average
Hobbies
Playing with my twelve cats
Favorite pastime
Washing my hair
Profession
Taxidermies
Hair color
Pink – notice my name （insert eye roll）
Eyes
Star struck
Skin
Pasty white
I go onto the internet and search for a picture of a cat, find an image of a huge fat one with bulging eyes. It’s the ugliest cat I ever saw.
“Here, kitty, kitty.” I smile as I upload it as my profile pic.
I read the question again:
What are you looking for?
I inhale deeply as I think, hmm . . . I want to write something that will show me what I already know, that nobody interests me at all. I twist my lips as I contemplate my words.
I’m looking for someone who is only one color, but not one size. Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain.
Doing no harm, but feeling no pain.
I smile and hit submit: that will weed them out.
Nobody will respond.
It’s Thursday, and it’s been the best week I’ve had in a long time.
Daniel is hilarious, and we’ve been out to dinner every night, because apparently, he doesn’t ever feel like anything home-cooked.
We have champagne taste on a beer budget.
He’s announced that, by default, we are his official best friends now, seeing as he has nobody else in town. He even asked me to go to an event next week that he’s been invited to. I’m going as his date, but there is no date, it’s not like that between us.
I do have to admit though, he’s great company.
Oh, and surprise, surprise . . . nobody has messaged me on my dating app.
Just like I knew they wouldn’t.
I smile as I wriggle into my netball uniform.
I’m in the bathroom stall in my office building, work has finished for the day, and I’m playing netball at six-thirty, and there isn’t enough time to go home and get back into town.
I slide it down over my shoulders and cringe as I look at myself. “Oh . . . yuck,” I whisper. “This is hideous.”
Skintight, bright red, the dress sticks to my body like super glue and it’s super short.
I walk to the mirror to stare at my reflection. I look like a netball player in some sicko porn gang team skit.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Ugh, who picked these uniforms?” I sigh as I rearrange my boobs. “So ugly.”
I shrug my shoulders. Oh well. I pull my hair up into a high ponytail and make my way back to my office. It’s too early to go yet, so I’ll finish up some odd jobs while I wait.