Oh, Match.Com, I know you're supposed to create more weddings than any other measure. I know you work for some people. For me, my friend, you've sent me a murderer, a swing-dance enthusiast who may or may not me on the Autism spectrum, and a married native of India who I didn't really care if I understood, as he was talking about the inner-workings of computers. I will praise your block feature. That little married creep sent a message that accidentally slipped through and then got blocked on Christmas. Has he been begging me to chat with him for weeks with no reply? I'll pray that he finds someone else. Please, please, find him someone else. And make sure to teach him to delete the messages on his cell phone. It was a turn-off when his wife texted me.
Match, I just don't understand why no one likes me. I'm a Sunny, Southern, fucking Sweetheart for the Love of God. Am I not making that obvious? Coincidentally, every normal person who sends me a message knew me in college, when I was Sunny, Southern, and Sweet and would have been dismayed at an f-bomb being thrown in the middle of that. I don't need you for those guys, Match, they're already my facebook friends. I don't sense a love connection.
Match, you have one more week. Do you hear me, one more week? No more bandannas, mullets, earners of <$25,000, high school graduates, people who live in Brandenburg, tooth-deprived, or line beards. Give me quality or give me my money back.
Your's in Spinsterhood,
Dibbs
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