Roaches, Red Flags, and the Dating Rapture

A man unmatched me, and somehow I ended up questioning the state of modern romance, the apps, and reliving my Goodwill trauma. 

So I was supposed to go on a date this morning.

He canceled—said “something came up”—but then offered to reschedule for dinner. I was like, “No worries, just let me know what time you’re thinking.” Gave him my number to make it easier. And then… nothing.

No text. No dinner. Just me, slowly realizing he unmatched me on Hinge sometime later that night.

Like, oh. Okay. So clearly we’re not doing dinner. Appreciate the clarity… delivered via passive deletion.

And don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t sitting around waiting for him, either. I had a full day. I wasn’t rearranging my schedule for this man. But the casual disappearing act still irritates me—not because I cared, but because I genuinely have questions.

Why would you suggest rescheduling a date, ask for dinner, and then unmatch me like you got stage fright? For what?

Now I’m just sitting here wondering why you’d act like that—and apparently turning it into blog content for myself. So maybe you were useful after all.

Because what is happening on these apps?

Did the rapture occur and no one told me?

Did all the emotionally available people ascend into healthy, functional partnerships and leave the rest of us behind to rot in push-notification purgatory?

Because it feels like that.

It feels like we’re all just rummaging through the bargain bin of human connection, hoping to find someone who doesn’t ghost after five messages. The dating apps in 2025  are giving “clearance rack at Goodwill”—slightly damaged, weirdly faded, and somehow still overpriced.

Speaking of Goodwill. one time I was there naively flipping through the racks—just casually sliding hangers, half-browsing, half-bored—when I saw it.

A big, fat fucking roach.

Just sitting there. Right on the chest of a shirt like it was clocked in for its shift.

I clutched my pearls. Let out a dramatic gasp. Froze like I’d just witnessed a crime scene. 

I walked out of that Goodwill head down like it had personally betrayed me. I never returned.

Hinge, though?

I keep going back.

That’s the real horror.

I’m still there—like a clown—refreshing my likes for another hit of that sweet, sweet dopamine.

And I genuinely wonder—what’s the digital dating equivalent of seeing a roach on a shirt? What’s the moment that finally makes me close the app and never come back?

Look—I know I sound hypocritical. I’m talking shit, because I’m also in the bin. I’m here too, swiping away, participating in the same nightmare I claim to hate. 

But I still get to feel offended.

Because even if I’m in the pile, I’m not a stretched-out Forever 21 tube top—I’m a vintage leather jacket someone clearly didn’t recognize the value of.

And honestly? At this point, I don’t even think most of us are dating for love—we’re dating to distract ourselves from how bleak everything feels.

You don’t want a soulmate.

You need someone to split rent and groceries with when it all goes to hell.

If this is what dating looks like post-Rapture…can someone beam me up?

And if you see me in the clearance bin—no, you didn’t.