Boy 5. 

You’re clever.

You clicked on me, and your profile was funny but vague… so I asked if you were an artist right off the bat. I’ve heard that it’s easier to be a female artist than a male artist on these apps because women are seeking financially stability. This is nauseating. On so many levels. But, anyway, you answer right away that you’re not! You’re basically a corporate writer at this point.

We make jokes about Harry Potter which I feature briefly in my profile. I’m not obsessed with the books, but it’s an easy way to get nerd conversation going. You ask if I can do real magic (…you are not the first boy to ask me this), and I say yes. You call me a magician, and I say that’s not politically correct. I’m a wizard. Then we transition to X-rays because you feature one in your pictures, and I tell you about their use in one my plays. I drop my number–this was still early texting days.

You follow up immediately. We discuss neighborhoods–I’ve slowly been moving south, and you live in Brooklyn. All sorts of heading further and further down and around the world jokes ensue, culminating in my reaching escape velocity and being launched out of Earth’s orbit as a manic pixie space girl. We settle on drinks at an intermediate location in about a week or so.

Also, you like to use the blonde surfing boy emoji. I find this funny. You are neither blonde nor do I think you have ever surfed. You are a quirky, slightly corporate creature.

On the day of the date, you text to confirm. We make many ghosting and disguise “I’ll be the one in the trenchcoat” jokes. You ask me to bring a costume because I’m “in the theatre.” I respond that obviously what it means to be in the theatre is to have a trunk of random costumes and funny hats. Do you happen to need a rubber chicken? You respond about my spelling of the word “theater,” and explain that I’m in “theatre” and not “theater.” I am excited to have this conversation face to face.

We meet.

Boy 5, you kind of look like your photo. B+.

But you are an immediately present and talented conversationalist. You insist on paying for my drink. I explain you do not need to. It turns out you chose a wine bar because I said I drink wine. Neither of us really drink wine, but I like this spot. It is not too loud or crowded.

We talk about your brother who has always been sort of a loser and now works for Google animating their doodle. So, basically, now he’s the cool one forever. We talk about your job and the kind of writing you love. We talk about my job and the kind of writing I love.

Ah, yes, we meant to return to this, and we do: I demand your explanation. You claim that “theatre” refers to the art of and locations in which live theater whereas “theater” refers to a place where non-live art, aka movies, etc., is screened. I find this a fascinating distinction. The one I hear within my community is that “theater” refers to a geographical location whereas “theatre” refers to the concept. I personally think this is all nonsense because “theatre” is simply the British spelling and “theater” is the American spelling, and there are no rules anywhere actually about it, so anyone who says “theatre” is an anglophilic emperor with no clothes on. You argue that language is constantly involving… do I say cuticle or cuticle? GIF or GIF? Language is constantly evolving. I concede.

You tell me a story about how someone at work described a client as “reasonably positive” and then described you as “unreasonably positive” and you agreed with that assessment. I tell my funny story about Boy 1. Then we’re on the topic of people who text funny but don’t manifest funny… suddenly we’re on what is objectively funny and what isn’t? You think things can be objectively funny. I disagree. Nothing is objectively funny except for the consonant “k.” A “bucket” is infinitely funnier than a “pail.” You make a linguistic argument (I am dazzled, not gonna lie) in which you say that “bucket” is also funny though because of the abruptness of the word and its Scandinavian roots. You explain that English has Scandinavian threads that are perceived vulgar (“fuck” and “cunt”) and French threads that are perceived as high end (“fornicate” and “vagina”). I am impressed. I counter that linguistics are all well and good but totally dependent on your native language, aren’t they? My immigrant parents don’t care about the Scandinavian roots. I propose the following…

1. There are funny things. What makes things funny is that they are at once surprising and familiar. The comedian surprises you with something you always knew.
2. And there are funny people. We genetically find some things funny. I illustrate this. Sometimes when I deliver a line, I look down and then up and widen my eyes, and people laugh. I do not know why, I explain. I think it’s ’cause we biologically think big eyes are funny. I display my big eyes trick, and you are genuinely upset that it makes you laugh even though you knew it was coming.

I am a slow drinker. You get a second drink. We seem to be closing down the bar. We are back to meta-dating, and I’m discussing my internet presence after you tell me about your first and last experience on stage as an audience member that was called up. We head out. Awkward end of first date hug.

Boy 5, you are cool. You are smart. I do actually think you should write that film that your brother wants to animate. I want to see it. I want to thank you.

1. You don’t text too much.
2. You bought the drink without being a dick.
3. You met me late to accommodate my schedule.
4. You’re objectively intelligent.

That being said… this was an interesting case of sparky intellectual chemistry and very little physical chemistry? I’m not sure. I was genuinely dazzled by some of your conversational points, but I didn’t want to bite your lip at the same time.

Boy 5, I think I want to be friends with you?

UPDATE: You texted me the next morning asking me where you should commence googling me. I obviously suggested the horror flick in which I play a hipster date from hell.