Oh, OkCupid. You know me so well.
OkCupid, the online dating site I joined to be sexually rejected by the dregs of society, has a lame feature called Quickmatch. It’s basically the web equivalent of speed dating, but without all the hassle of leaving your “FarmVille” crops unattended, putting on pants and crawling out of your grandmother’s basement. Can’t pry your greasy fingers from that 4-gallon tub of extra-heavy mayo long enough to hunt-and-peck “your pretty lol” and click send? Quickmatch is for you, future ex-girlfriend.
With Quickmatch, you simply look at someone’s profile and then rate it on a scale of one to five. If you award high marks, OkCupid sends out an email letting the lucky lady know. Easy! Like A-B-C. And Sunday morning. And Kim Kardashian.
Now here’s when it gets tricky: OkCupid won’t reveal your identity right away. It is Quickmatch in name only. If only gays were playing, I’d suggest the site call the circuitous game Slow’mo.
To keep the mystery alive – or more likely to piss away everyone’s time – your crush will receive a note containing nine usually ghastly profile images arranged like the opening sequence of “The Brady Bunch” gone horrifically wrong. Hidden among the photos is sometimes (inexplicably) her own, and another is yours, her secret admirer. In order to possibly connect with you sometime before the next Rapture doesn’t happen, she must log in to the site, start randomly rating profiles, and if she gives you a rave review, only then will she find out that the mood lighting in her photos deceived you into believing she isn’t a huffy hipster with horseface. You’ll both get another email confirming the mutual interest. After all of that, there’s no guarantee one of you will nut up and actually contact the other. Which you could have done (or not done) in the first place without Quickmatch. Which I’m pretty sure is proof OkCupid wants you to stay single forever.
In terms that Al Gore could relate to, Quickmatch is sort of like how America chooses its presidents. You can win the popular vote but still lose the election, leading you to pack on pounds, cry eco-friendly tears and grow a beard. Which is coincidentally my preferred method of coping with breakups, minus the facial scruff. Because I
got laser hair removal am a girl.
No matter how many messages I get congratulating me on being rated four or five stars like a fucking Best Western on Yelp, I never play along. The short answer is because I think the process is really stupid. The long answer is because I think the process is really, really stupid.
But that all changed the other day when I was dispatched this intriguing batch of potential suitors:
In terms Al Gore could relate to, I don’t see a bush that would be a viable candidate.
But there are three pussies pictured that I’d be totally interested in petting, and that’s not even counting my own.