I’ve been on a lot of dates. I don’t consider myself an expert, but I can tell you how to get asked on a second: be as mysterious as possible, ask as many questions about the person as you can, let yourself be the blank canvas for whatever projection they desire. On the opposite end: share too much, fuck too quickly, move too fast, and it could never last—there’s not enough skin in the game for either party. Desire to be seen? Get real.

I’m more like a situationship expert. None of my dates end up landing me in the type of relationship that would produce the future I would most like to live, but they do land me in that awkward in-between stage that lasts for weeks to months where you’re basically dating but with no boundaries or commitment and you walk away as the heartbroken or the heartbreaker.

What I’ve learned is that dating is a game, it always has been, but the rules have changed. There’s something in the water. No. There’s something on the internet that’s fucked dating for all of us. Call it the American Dream or the Optimization Loop or Gamification. Some might call it capitalism, but it’s this force that says, more. One more swipe. One more date. One more fuck. More, Now, Again (Elizabeth Wurtzel title of her memoir about addiction to speed aptly applies here). After a good first date you open the app back up and think to yourself, well maybe the next one will be even better. Our inability to settle on good enough has turned dating into a game. And whose fault is that? Our easy access to other potential partners distracts us from the flesh and blood human being in front of us that if we were honest, we can’t even see in the beginning because of how much projecting we do onto them.

In the past, I followed my own rules (don’t text first, don’t initiate plans, take three hours to text back, never accept last minute plans), and I played my own games (cater to the person in front of you even if it means masking yourself, be engaging, but don’t share about yourself unless asked, be invisible and hard to pin down, cater to their interests and desires, allow them to see themselves in you) and I got the results I wanted (someone wanting to be with me). But I felt unseen (obviously). This summer, I tried something new. I tried being myself. I didn’t filter. I didn’t pretend. I wasn’t docile and silent. And get this, it worked.

For three weeks I thought myself well on my way to girlfriend-hood. I met a guy who I had everything in common with. We’d both read The Untethered Soul, wanted to world school our kids, prioritized health, liked the same sad, white-guy indie singers. But then he went to Alaska to work for a month. While he was gone, I sat on the beach and ate my salad with chopsticks because I forgot to pack silverware, and chopsticks were the only utensils I had in my car. I watched the fire ants move in and out of their tunnels. A wave came and threatened my belongings, so I sprinted to move them. Once I sat back down, I realized I destroyed the fire ant's entry tunnel, and I watched them scatter, and try, and fail to enter the sand again. I sat under the blazing sun listening to the ocean churn and read a book about an artist in Alaska. Would this action bring me closer to him? No and I wouldn’t tell him about it.

I once dated a different boy who didn’t know how to use chopsticks and even though I knew from the first date I didn’t want to date him; I prolonged the relationship for three agonizing months in which he fell in love with me. I wanted so badly to like him back because he was sweet and kind and gentle. I still believed you could force attraction then. The one night he slept over, we didn’t even cuddle. It was so confusing; did he like me? Was he scared of me? I started thinking I was the problem. When I finally ended it via the phone after I had returned from a three-week vacation, he said he would be waiting for me if I changed my mind, but he didn’t know how to use chopsticks. And the only books he read were by Steven King.

The boy in Alaska doesn’t like olives or pickles and I do. So, by the How I Met Your Mother rule we’re meant to be. Then again, Chopsticks didn’t like pickles either but that seemed less a preference and more of a close-mindedness. Maybe age has something to do with it: Alaska was four years my senior, and Chopsticks was two years younger than me.

What I didn’t realize at the time was that Alaska was representative of a new kind of boy I hadn’t met yet— the nature type. And once I confirmed to Hinge that we met and he was the kind of guy I would see again, my algorithm showed me there were a hundred more just like him. I was kind of sad about that. I wanted him to be special.

While Alaska was gone, we barely talked. In my head, I imagined he would call me to recount his days, like he did while he was still here—FaceTiming me just because he saw a frog he thought I would like. Desperate for any contact, I checked his Hinge profile and noticed he updated his location to Fairbanks. I was in bed at 8:30am when I did that. My heart bottomed out and scraped along my pelvis bone. It ruined my whole day and a low-grade panic set in that manifested as pervading self-doubt. I wondered if I would’ve played my game better if he would’ve been more interested. Maybe I should’ve texted less? Answered less? Been less authentic to my feelings and desires? Not shared that I would miss him while he was gone? Don’t panic, he’ll be back, I told myself. And then it was three weeks, and he was supposed to be home, and I checked Hinge again, and mister man had his location set to Spain.

On our first date, he told me it was fate that we met because he usually has his location set to Spain. That’s where his brother lives and he liked to practice his Spanish. In my head I thought, practice your Spanish on a dating app? Now it was me who was in (S)pain.

So, I texted him. I was going to wait another week, give him time to settle back in, be back in our state and maybe remember me. But I couldn’t take it any longer and if I had already played my whole hand, I might as well calm my mind. I was trying to be more authentic to my feelings. He responded to me over twenty-four hours later. He sent me pictures from his trip. We sent a total of twenty-three texts over the next three days and then he told me he was going to sand his deck all weekend. And that was it. Never heard from him again after that. (Remember, never, ever text first).