Goldilocks’ Internet on Valentine’s Eve

By Anonymous

Since opening the syllabus file for my writing course spawned a deep dread within me, I took it upon myself to practice my craft. Searching for creative nonfiction prompts turned up duds, just nothing appealing. Most of the suggestions were the kind of softball, fodder-for-the-memoir questions you get asked in job interviews or icebreaker circles. (Think about a time you were proven wrong, or, where do you see yourself in 20 years?)

It seemed hopeless, until I found a relic from the pre-listicle internet: A poorly rendered blog from The New York Times. The site’s body barely filled half my screen; the text was relegated to the left margin. A garish beige wallpaper with a fleur-de-lys-esque pattern greeted me. Then, pixel-y red letters and an even grainier black body text loaded in chunks. When the letters finally arrived, I read on eagerly. The website told me to try reading some “Modern Love” articles for inspiration. I groaned. Though skeptical, I remembered that the column was less ubiquitous in 2009, the date listed in the web page’s copyright. Then, an entry from the 2008 college essay contest piqued my interests. The title described a question that was being explored often in my diary entries.

“Want to Be My Boyfriend? Please Define.”

I clicked the link and was redirected to the modern The New York Times website. As I read on, I was surprised that this was the first-place entry— perhaps my generation’s noncommittal tendencies had not been sufficiently studied yet. It seemed out-of-place displayed on the sleek minimalist interface of today’s NYT website. The now hackneyed ideas about gay men who weren’t really gay and the agony-inducting “what are we?” question would be more at home on that ugly little website from 2009. My disappointment lingered until the last paragraph or rather, the last sentence: 

“I tried to tell myself that I’m young, that this is the time to be casual, careless, lighthearted and fun; don’t ruin it.”

Recently, I’ve been worried that I’m ruining it. Perhaps it’s the kind of turmoil that will only be resolved with a few more life experiences and a year or two of frontal lobe development. How do you resolve the need for security, that only creeps up when my twin XL feels extra roomy, with the hyper-individualistic, sexual empowerment that’s clogging up the minds of me and my friends?

My generation's un-nuanced ideas about sexual liberation are not wholly at fault. There is something to be said about the sex drive of a 20-something, baby-feverous queer at Wellesley College. When I was coupled, I looked on, envious of those who kissed freely on the dance floor, lusted after others (those who were often in relationships themselves), and regretted when under a friend’s watchful eye, I had to turn away male suitors who approached me at frats. When I was single, I judged the desperate souls who so dared to touch lips in the company of others, waited patiently for the ding or hum that meant a special someone responded, and yearned for the comfort and stability that can only come from years of affectionate acceptance.

As of late, the quest for romance and pleasure has left me at my most pathetic.
A night, in the recent past, began with my proclamation that I was “over it.” It was precipitated by a brief moment of disgust experienced when I witnessed my ex sneeze without covering their mouth. Boozy antics proved to be a good distraction from the end of my longest relationship. Then, the friends left. Suddenly, I was laying down in a shower, fully clothed, sobbing to Matty Healy’s labored crooning.

Other times, I stooped lower. I begged my geriatric boss at my thankless retail job for relationship advice. After downing my first jello shot, I told my best friend who I wanted to cheat on my boyfriend with. One day, I woke up so embarrassed by a display of affection that I seriously considered dropping out of college.

Truly, I don’t know if I’m ruining the free love smörgåsbord that your twenties are promised to be. I don’t know if those notifications I long for will or even should lead to love. I can’t confidently say I loved the last person I dated. Nor do I know if commitment-free sex can end without some kind of sting. 

Surprisingly, there are some things that I’ve learned. For now, I like when my phone buzzes. I definitely should not be in a committed, long-term relationship. More often than not, kissing your friends is a misguided pursuit. And finally, to bump the proverbial uglies with a lover is not the culmination of connection.

I’d like to think that there is an outdated New York Times blog post of a person waiting there for me, unclicked. My spirits aren’t doused by the deluge of instantly gratifying, get-love-quick-schemes I continue to come across. Perhaps it’s naivete, or the fact that my parents aren’t divorced. But those two possibilities feel too cynical for my tastes. I know that that satisfaction exists. It’s in the truths I can extract from nights that end in tears, in the promise of finding prospective kindred spirits, and in the joy I derive from those moments with myself, indulging my urge to keep searching for the unknown that will be just right. Until then, I’ll scroll into the abyss.

The author is swearing off Tinder for the time being. From the February 2023 issue.