My Bumble Profile

a real diamond in the rough xo

Perfect first date

The one where I don’t know that you texted your ex-girlfriend three days ago because you’re still in love with her. The one where you don’t know that I act like a psychotic bitch the week before my period and will pick fights with you out of thin air with you to make sure you still love me. The one where I don’t know how many random women in bikinis you follow on Instagram. The one where you haven’t seen me drunk-eat Cheetos and wipe the orange dust on my pajama bottoms. The one where I don’t know that it’s nearly impossible for you to get hard without Viagra because of your crippling anxiety. The one where you don’t know that I have severe abandonment issues and will think you hate me every time you take more than thirty minutes to reply to my text. The one where we’re both still pretending.

I get way too excited about

That moment where I come home from a long day of walking three blocks to Whole Foods and back to buy my overpriced, organic 365 band pre-cut vegetables and immediately rip my bra off before I even get to my bedroom. The feeling of letting my big titties free from that harness is indescribable. Why do I even need to wear a bra in the first place? Isn’t it annoying that flat-chested women can get away with going braless, but when I do it, it’s considered offensive? This is the same reason I could never get away with wearing a “cheeky bottom” bathing suit. My ass is fat. And while it is trendy to have a big ass these days, it’s not something I can just swing around on the beach in front of families without getting looks. So yeah, I get excited about letting all my shit loose in the privacy of my own home.

A pro and con of dating me

Pro: I make a mean lasagna.

Con: I will torture you over the fact that you have been in love with and had sex with other women before me.

After work you can find me

Slowly draining a bottle of red wine alone on my couch in the same sweatpants I’ve been wearing for five days listening to music exclusively made before 2001.

I’m a great plus one because

I will spend hundreds of dollars to look absolutely stunning, never give you shit for introducing everyone to me as your friend, and then have sex with you afterward.

If I could eat one meal for the rest of my life it would be

A 1:45 AM delivery of emotional support mozzarella sticks, grilled cheese, and cheese fries from Remedy Diner. Paired with another glass of Pinot Noir that I absolutely do not need after drinking my way through the East Village for the past six hours. But I’ll pour it anyway and I will drink exactly two sips of it white eating the entire grilled cheese, two and a half mozzarella sticks, and not touching the fries at all. I will wake up in the morning to a Spotify playlist blasting, Bravo muted on the TV, and the remnants of the meal on my kitchen counter.

There will be clues before walking into the kitchen that the meal was consumed: ketchup on my t-shirt, a rogue, stale french fry in my sheets. I will absolutely eat the french fry before getting out of bed as I check my phone to make sure I did not send any inappropriate drunk texts to a man who does not want me. I will walk into the kitchen and battle the overwhelming feeling of shame by replacing it with grace, just as my Zoom therapist taught me. I will swear that I’m going on a diet and not eating for the rest of the day. I will crack by 11 AM and rationalize that I need a turkey bacon, egg and cheese on a toasted everything bagel (scooped out, of course) because it will cure my hangover. I will drink too much coffee and quell my raging hangxiety with a glass of champagne by 1 PM. I will have three glasses. I will do this all over again next weekend.