The Tinder Experiment Is Over. Welcome to The Hinge.

Well, it happened.

The Tinder experiment is officially over.

I deleted my profile. Hopefully.

I say “hopefully” because deleting anything from the internet feels less like destroying evidence and more like politely asking a multinational corporation to maybe stop showing it to people eventually.

But Tinder and I have parted ways.

After the swiping, the matching, the questionable conversations, and the recurring suspicion that I was less likely to find a date than I was to receive an exciting new investment opportunity, I decided it was time.

So naturally, I did the sensible thing.

I joined another dating app.

Welcome to The Hinge.

Yes, I know it's just called Hinge. But “The Hinge” sounds more dramatic, like a nightclub, a medical procedure, or something at Home Depot.

Apparently, Hinge is “designed to be deleted.”

Challenge accepted.

The question is: why will I delete it?

Will I actually meet someone?

Will I get any matches at all?

Will I match with someone, have a perfectly normal conversation, and then hear:

“I don't check this app very often. Do you have WhatsApp?”

🚩🚩🚩

Will someone want to take the conversation offline almost immediately?

Will she suddenly have an incredible business opportunity?

Will cryptocurrency somehow enter the conversation?

Will she own a thriving import/export business that requires absolutely no physical location?

Will we talk for three days and then she mysteriously disappear?

Or—and I realize this is an absolutely insane possibility—will someone actually want to meet me in person?

Coffee.

Dinner.

A movie.

Two human beings occupying the same physical location without anyone trying to sell the other one something.

Imagine that.

I'm going into The Hinge with an open mind. I'm going to swipe—or like, or comment, or whatever terminology we're using over there—and see what happens.

I'm not expecting perfection.

I'm not even expecting normal.

I'm just hoping for an actual human being who wants to have a conversation, laugh a little, eventually meet in person, and doesn't need me to download another messaging app before revealing that her uncle has taught her a proprietary cryptocurrency trading strategy.

The bar is low, people.

Very low.

So begins the next dating experiment.

How long will The Hinge last?

How many matches will I get?

How many will turn into conversations?

How many conversations will turn into actual dates?

And how many will end with me staring at my phone thinking:

“Oh, for God's sake. Not again.”

Only time will tell.

Until then...

Pray with me, Forest.

Pray with me.

Why I’m Still Single: An Investigation Nobody Requested

I’ve noticed that stories about the horrors of my dating-app experience get a bunch of views. Apparently, my romantic suffering is your entertainment.

You’re welcome.

I know what some of you are thinking because I have X-Men-like abilities:

“Niel, not only are your unique looks incredibly handsome, but you’re also smart, innovative, and funny! You CAN’T be single.”

It’s all true. Every descriptor. Thank you very much.

And yet, I am single.

Let me explain.

I’m not much for “game.” I don’t approach women in the grocery store and say, “Oh my, look at that sweet potato! Can you believe the amazing fries we could make with that?”

I know. Shocking. That line is basically irresistible.

I also meet women at recovery meetings who are smart, funny, and inspirational—and who have great heads of hair. But I’m not the kind of guy who will just roll up—we said that in the ’90s—to a shorty—also a ’90s reference—and say, “Let me holla at ya!”

Guess which era that one came from.

It’s simply not my style. In the interest of transparency, most of my real-life dates—the ones that didn’t begin with an app asking me to select my preferred radius—have been initiated by the woman.

So, ladies, the historical data is clear. Draw your own conclusions.

Anyway, I’m still trudging along. Apparently, “trudging” means moving forward with purpose, although it also sounds like walking through wet cement while carrying emotional baggage.

Either way, I’ll keep moving forward and see what Cupid has in store for the rest of 2026.

Hopefully, Cupid has improved his aim. And updated his profile pictures.

I Thought I Was Supposed to Be My True Self? Another Adventure on The Tinder

After approximately 2 billion swipes left (nope) and right (why not?), I finally got another match on the Tinder.

Her profile name?

"Hopeful."

Well, that's already one more hopeful person than I expected to find on the Tinder.

Hopeful is a straight, 5'8" woman who describes herself as:

"Down to earth, laid back woman that is looking for something real..."

Excellent.

She also wants:

"Someone that can be just there true self, no lies, no games no drama just your true self no matter what and I will be the same!"

First, I believe we're looking for their true self.

But this is the Tinder, not the SATs. I'm not grading anyone.

More importantly:

Great! Imma be my true self.

Because I don't know how to be Matt Damon.

Her profile also provides some important intelligence. She doesn't like receiving nude selfies—which seems like an extremely reasonable policy—works out sometimes, smokes, which I don't, and drinks on special occasions.

Fine.

So I start the conversation:

"Good evening, Hopeful!"

I had a sneaking suspicion her parents didn't look at their newborn daughter and say, "She's beautiful. Let's name her Hopeful."

Turns out I was correct.

Her name is Chrissy.

We start chatting. I throw in some humor. She seems to like it.

Excellent.

I tell her that I think I'm actually funnier in person.

Also excellent.

We're talking about what we're doing Thursday. I mention some completely innocuous stuff about my day. Nobody has attempted to sell cryptocurrency to anyone. Nobody claims to be conducting "market research" in Augusta.

We're making progress!

Then I mention my sobriety.

Record scratch.

The conversation takes a turn.

She asks:

"So is that you drink now or no"

I explain that no, I don't drink. I've been sober for a little over 17 years.

But I also explain that I don't care if other people drink—as long as they're responsible about it.

I'm sober.

I'm not the Soup Nazi.

NO CHARDONNAY FOR YOU!

Drink your wine. Have your cocktail. Order a beer.

I'm not going to leap across the table and slap a margarita out of your hand.

This conversation happened Thursday at around 4:30 p.m.

I sent a few more messages afterward.

I even asked if she'd like to talk on the phone, since her profile said that's her preferred method of communication.

And then...

Crickets.

Not even Tinder crickets.

Those crickets have probably unmatched me too.

Which leaves me slightly confused.

Wait a minute, Chrissy.

I thought you wanted someone who could be:

"Just their true self."

That's exactly what I did!

I didn't lie.

I didn't play games.

I didn't create drama.

I didn't pretend to drink.

I didn't pretend to be Matt Damon.

I showed up as my true self, just like the advertisement requested.

Apparently there were terms and conditions.

And here's what really makes me laugh:

Her profile says she drinks "on special occasions."

Is having someone who drinks booze really that important when you only drink sometimes yourself?

Maybe there's an annual Cabernet Festival I don't know about.

Maybe Valentine's Day requires tequila.

Maybe I'm supposed to hold the wine glass while she drinks it.

I have questions.

Of course, maybe she just got busy. Maybe she'll respond eventually. Maybe she met somebody else. That's dating.

But if the sobriety conversation is what killed it, that's pretty funny.

Because after dealing with fake profiles, scammers, crypto investors, mysterious 6'6" women named Hamit, and everything else I've encountered on the Tinder, I finally did exactly what a profile asked:

I was my true self.

And apparently my true self got left on read.

Maybe next time I'll try being Matt Damon.