The dating game

Swipe left, swipe right with no end in sight.
A meeting, a chance encounter, we flounder and fight, adrift in a sea of brief connections, ‘yeah, but what do you expect son?’ your mates cry. Looking slick, smug and sly, safe and content in their marriages, while we erect barrages.
For in this game you gotta protect yourself and look after your health, to be fighting fit, physically ripped and mentally nimble, prepared for a hottie to gatecrash your world.
The kind of person that makes your toes curl and mind swirl.
That girl.
But maybe that’s a pipe dream?
For in the sea of single faces out there we remain unseen, like a leper girls look at us unclean, the lines we feed them they see as obscene.
There’s always that divide. They shout we scream, or maybe it’s the other way round?
Whatever, I’m twisted now.
I want to be realistic and authentic, but how?
Like Batman I want to be fending off honeys with a stick, KAPOW!
But with a furrowed brow I sit back and take stock. My time is now. Or has it come and gone? Do I need to stop the rot?
Killing time it won’t be long until I write my own song, one where I’m the hero that does no wrong.
But who wants to hear a story where the conclusion is foregone?
The dating game is a game because we don’t know the outcome. But back to what my mates say again, ‘what do you expect son?’

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