Un-Hinged

Editorial Assistant Amy Condren opens the window on the emotional KPIs of dating down under

There’s plenty of fish in the sea, but I have an attitude problem. I will be the first to admit it. Dating apps always make me feel like The Company (me) is having a flash sale and I am the head of the marketing department.

Picture me, the office siren reclining on a jagged rock, jutting up from the depths of the roiling sea: 

Mermaid Tail: silver (obviously) 

Hair: long, dark and a little seaweedy (ongoing budget constraints) 

Deadly 60 Rating: 32 percent (not necessary but this is my article and these are my stats)

Mythical Ability: oneirokinesis (look it up)

Cellular Device: android (note above-mentioned budget constraints)

Rock: of volcanic origin (I’m thinking of those hexagonal basalt columns, because why not?) 

Weather Conditions: increasingly volatile 

Colour Grading: whatever the blue-green filter was in Twilight 

Overall Vibe: ominous, brutalist, editorial 

There’s a phone in my hand – a bedazzled chrome BlackBerry – and I am wearing one of those businessman bluetooth headsets no one has been seen in since 2009. It’s obvious from my furrowed brow that I am implementing a full-scale brand activation strategy (duh). The framework is in place and I’ve got the product (me) watered down to six pictures, three prompts, and a poll (no voice prompt because I refuse to surrender my voice to the sea witch). The trap is laid and I am a 2D, pixelated lure. Bring on the admin! Boys, I hope you’re hungry for a reply in 2-3 business days. 

I’m taking calls. I’m circling back. I’m hoping this email finds you well. Sometimes, I might even touch base. With every text, trust that I will be building on what my colleague has just said. 

I’m not an unromantic soul (believe it or not), but collecting all this data is basically a full-time job. Sometimes I get a little overwhelmed at work, so I just lie back on my igneous throne and listen to the tides lapping at my fins. “Many white collar roles are being outsourced to bots these days, so knowing prompt engineering techniques to increase the quality of generative AI responses is an employable skill in some fields,” I tell myself as I struggle to craft a reply that 1) opens with warmth, and 2) follows it up with a memorable display of my competence. Occasionally, I will outsource my flirting to ChatGPT (feel free to report me to HR). 

My years of market research have taught me to be cautious of image when it comes to this type of client onboarding. Deep sea fishing in this economy is no joke! I worry if my song is too shrill, ringing in the ears of prospective prey more like a whistle — a distress signal — help! I am shipwrecked and alone. Now everyone aged 23-28 in my local government area knows I am on clearance. 

As if bewitched by my wailing, a sputtering mariner appears, floating on a splintered chunk of door just like Rose in the Titanic movie. He’s calling out to me (auto-caps off) over the crash of the waves, bobbing on his flotsam: “add me on strava.” Can he not see I am part fish? With a vexed swipe of my wrist, I shoo him like a pecking gull. “Serious applicants only!” I have friends who swear they can hear violins through their shellphones. When I press mine to my ear, it’s always static. 

Off the side of distant yachts, attractive strangers are being lowered in diving cages down, down, into the deep. They wink at me through decorative bars – wrought iron roses with thorns that have started to rust. I can’t even be mad at it; the tongue in cheek mockery of my desires is so on brand. It’s cruel (or is it just me?). Swells crest over the paywall I cannot cross to greet them (see above-mentioned budget constraints). Still, several new manfish surface each day to blow bubbles at the base of my rocky perch, and I boop them on the nose, down one by one. It’s kind of like redirecting a shark (without as much fear irl). Seabirds soar overhead and swoop at my scalp, cawing: “GYG or Mad Mex?” Perhaps I did not tailor the campaign to my target audience as well as I had thought. It occurs to me that there may be invisible forces manipulating the market (but that’s well above my pay grade). Barnacles dig into my scales and my productivity wanes.

A digital grid may as well be a tank – four glass walls for the soul. I’m just too big for it. My tail droops over the edge. Orcas get floppy fins when you keep them in bathtubs. Their spirits fester and wane. The way I see it, people have the sort of wildness and majesty that is near impossible to capture. Sometimes, you just have to be there for it, you know? Feel the seaspray on your face and taste the salt as the whale breaches. I cannot seem to condense myself. I know I’m someone who needs to get in the water and dive for pearls (I think the algorithm knows it too). Despite my best efforts to keep my voice from the clutches of the sea witch, my essence gets yanked out from my throat and I clam up. I get weirdly corporate. Don’t expect normal behaviour from me behind the screen. 

Still, sometimes I like to get in the tank just to see what I might be missing. What I find is usually shallow. If you have any further questions concerning my availability, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Kind regards, 

𓆝 ⋆｡𖦹°‧