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Joe

J: You’re very pretty
Me: Thank you, Joe
J: First girl I met on here was a guy
Me: Oh god
J: I never met him or her. I figured it out when he wouldn’t text me and he said “Well really I’m a guy”

J: Well if you like me enough maybe we can do a casino trip to Vegas or AC or Bahamas

J: When’s your birthday?
Me: August
J: Let’s get muddy

Joe is 50. How we matched I have no idea. Perhaps I swiped right in some sort of singledom-induced blackout. I talked to him on that day to see if he wouldn’t say something hilariously inappropriate that I could tell all my friends about, but aside from offering to buy my entrance to a Tough Mudder race for my birthday (after I expertly diverted the “Let’s get muddy” comment into my before-i’m-30 bucket list goal of completing the 10-mile obstacle race) and suggesting we name our team “My Sweet Emma,” not much came of it. Until a few days later, after some much appreciated radio silence from old Joey Vegas, the topless, sweaty, reddened, nipply torso photo came through, followed by the word … “Hi.”

Stop it, Joe.
Blocked.

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