Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
His mother, no doubt.
I hem and haw, debating on which photographs to use for his profile—which ones represent him the best—realizing he has very few of himself alone. That means I may have to crop a few people out or at least blur the images so I’m not showing the faces of any of his loved ones, privacy and all that. I root around for an editing app and find one quickly.
Pop a few photos in and voila!
Done.
I’m not sure why I’m actually doing this, but I am excited to see what kind of females are in these dating apps. My only perspective has been as a woman searching for a man, so I’m interested to see what girls put in their biographies. I know from my own experience many guys on these things sound bitter with the whole experience and it shows.
It’s not long before I’m swiping, mostly left, and I actually see a few young women I recognize from my classes and parties. I wonder if I’ll see my roommate while I’m nosing around.
Oh! This Rachel is cute…
…but her blurb sounds odd. She sounds really high-maintenance, so I swipe left. Same with a girl named Molly who caught my eye right away but then turned me off by mentioning her six cats in an off-campus apartment.
That can’t be allowed, can it?
Holy pet rent, Batman!
As I get more comfortable in bed, swiping consumes most of my attention; however, there isn’t a single young woman I feel inclined to swipe right on. I’m not sure if I’m being overly critical because I like Jack as a person, or if I’m being overly critical because I like him as more than a friend.
All I know is that somewhere out there, Jack is looking at men for me, and that has me feeling a certain kind of way.
Nine
Jack
That little shite created a dating profile for me.
Don’t blame her considering I hijacked hers, but still—what nerve.
The men on those apps are shite. I could hardly stomach swiping on any of them, and the ones I did match with (as Eliza) lasted a hot five minutes before I deleted their twatty arses.
Bloody idiots, each and every one of them.
I don’t know how these girls manage it.
Briefly I wonder what kind of luck Eliza is having as me on the dating app, needing my phone back but enjoying the freedom of not having it. No interruptions, no distractions. No nonstop notifications, especially from young women like Kaylee who just want to use me for whatever it is they think I can give them.
Status?
I won’t lie and say it hasn’t been incredible moving to America and becoming a commodity on this college campus. I became somewhat of an instant celebrity, everyone wanting to meet me and spend time with me before actually meeting me in person.
People here are mad for Brits.
It’s the whackiest thing.
I’ve been invited to every party as if I were the bloody Prince of Wales himself. Fraternity parties and parties on Jock Row, the block off campus where many of the student athletes live in big, expensive houses. Located all on one long street, the houses are similar to fraternity or sorority rows, popular with the student body for drinking and socializing.
Well. Most of them are big and expensive.
The rugby house is a bit of a shitehole.
A dump, I’ve heard it been called.
However, as much as I’m enjoying this freedom not having my mobile has afforded me, I actually do require it back. I know my family has probably attempted to get ahold of me a few times; Mum reaches out a few times a day, and if I don’t respond, she will call the embassy and have them search for my cold, lifeless body.
Tossing my trainers into a duffel bag, I also throw in a T-shirt and pack up for practice later—a few blokes and I are going to throw the ball around on the field this afternoon in an attempt to help me get a little bit better. It didn’t escape anyone that I am shite at the game, and some of my mates reached out.
Coach is going to suspend me; I can feel it in my gut.
Shoes go in the bag. Shirt goes in the bag.
Protein bars go in the bag.
A buzzing sound catches my attention and I fish Eliza’s mobile from the bag as well.
It’s her, bright and early.
Eliza: Morning…
Me: Cheerio.
Really, Jack? Cheerio? You haven’t used that as a greeting a day in your fucking life.
Eliza: You ready to make the switch today?
Me: Not really. I’m having a good time being you. Your mum says hello, by the way.
Eliza: Would you knock it off?
Me: Can’t. Having too much fun. You’re very popular, your mobile hasn’t stopped buzzing since last night.
Eliza: Okay, now I know you’re lying. No one ever texts me, I’m pathetic. YOUR phone has been blowing up.