Doomsdates Everyone’s had a bad date. There’s no shame in it; it’s nobody’s fault. Except that sometimes it is, obviously. The Guy Who Turned Up An Hour Late has to shoulder some of the blame, as does The Girl Who Always Cries. But in all likelihood: It’s Not You, It’s Them. You’re just some poor lonely Ron looking for your Hermione on eHarmony, or else you’ve been blindly thrust in the direction of the nearest stranger by mutual “helpful” becoupled friends.
Whatever the journey, a date is pot luck. It’s Russian roulette. It relies on the right bullets being in the right... holes? (Where was I going with this? Oh yeah.) Basically, it’s sex, or death. You spin the barrel and occasionally it’s love, but much more often, you get shot in the fucking head. With this in mind, we asked the Crowd to submit fictional (or semi-fictional) tales of modern romance in a doomed world. I think it’s fair to say we’re all jaded, alienated, dysfunctional and generally distrusting of the entire human race. Scroll down to see how you can get involved next issue. FeaturedTHE TINDER TAXIDERMIST
By Sara Lewis (@lewisssaz) It was love at first swipe.
I was in a new city. I wanted to meet someone, anyone. That’s when I found her: Daniela. When she asked me to meet her at the bus stop outside McDonalds, I worried that she was actually fifteen and/or trying to rob me. Thankfully, she was of age. And cute. An accurate reflection of the photos. So far, so good. She stared at me awkwardly (this was to be a theme of the date) and said, “Shall we shake hands?” Umm, okay. Formal, but I rolled with it. I hadn’t really dated much (or, at all). Perhaps this was what the kids were doing these days. We planned to have a drink. She told me that she’d already had three beers before leaving the house, which, given that it was 11am, alarmed me somewhat. The nearest bar was closed, and she quickly began to panic. Hence, we found ourselves in an Irish pub. I don’t like Irish pubs at the best of times but at 11:30am on a weekday it was packed with leering drunkards. I’ll be honest, I felt openly hostile towards the entire Gaelic population. We sat down on what I believe was a barrel. The place smelled of stale beer at best, fresh urine at worst. Daniela began rapidly working her way through her entire small talk repertoire (being too depressed to leave the house, acid reflux, how much she loved pigeons, etc). I sat smoking as a cigarette as she relayed her work experience in a mortuary. “I called them every day for weeks until eventually they agreed to let me come in for the day. ” She described the bodies with what can only be described as... fondness. When she invited me back to her place, obviously I should have said no. Obviously. On the way there, she off-handishly said: “By the way, my name’s not really Daniela. Tinder is connected to Facebook, and my profile on Facebook is a random Spanish body builder. I never told you, did I?” No. No you did not. |
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DOOMSDATE STORIES Survival Instinct
By Hayley Morgan Was By McTangle In Common By Margreet De Heer Al By Fran Oliver Obviously, I should have turned around and gone home.
Obviously. When we arrived at her place, she showed me around her room. There wasn't much to see, aside from the bag of human hair on the mantelpiece, and her mouse. Her dead mouse. She’d accidentally stepped on it, she said, which left her so distraught she put the body in the freezer like a guilty, homicidal spouse. After indulging in a Karate Kid-style crash course in taxidermy, she drank two bottles of wine and... preserved and immortalised a dead rodent. By herself. I have to admit: all of this I found charming as hell. The potential alcoholism, the fake Facebook profile, the dead mouse... She was hot and freaky and I loved it. I bloody loved it. It was a date so bad it was good. I’d be telling that one to the grandcats, for sure. Sometimes love comes in unexpected forms, right? Like, say, a Tinder taxidermist masquerading as a Spanish body builder. The next evening, she sent me a Snapchat of herself eating a Burger King value meal while Photoshopping herself into some of my old Facebook pictures. She was, quite literally, my Dream Girl. Sadly, things went sour after she informed me of her intention never to form any emotional attachments ever again ever, and announced that she was planning on acquiring an STI instead, as if to strike it from her bucket list. I suppose I ought to be relieved that she didn’t kill me and stuff me drunkenly by hand. (Actually, that sounds quite good.) |
We are still accepting submissions for our next romance-themed activity: Freak Love. Would dating be easier if everyone admitted their terrible truths and dirty secrets upfront, or is it better to slowly build up tolerance over time?
Please write a fake dating profile for a dark and flawed but honest character looking for love. They may be realistic or fantastical but your profile should be humorous, or at least thought-provoking. When you’re done, email it to us :) |