Dear Christy,

I’ve swiped on so many damn dating apps that I was walking with my friends and I totally did it IRL, like in the air, in front of people. I didn’t mean to, I guess it’s just muscle memory. Those apps are such a cultural time suck that swiping is one of my instincts now. I realize I sound like the biggest jerk.

— Dude in the Mood


Muscle memory is when that six years of elementary school Spanish comes rushing back during a quick trip to Tijuana to stock up on Adderall and piñatas. It’s when you plop down in front of a harpsichord after years of absentia and the Bach free flows out of your fingers like a leaky bladder. It’s remembering how to juggle — or how to drive a stick.

It’s not swatting at farts on public sidewalks.

But congrats on fabricating a silent catcall. (Kudos for recognizing your fuckery.) You must look like a real casanova out there conducting a porn score without a baton or orchestra. You do have an audience, though — those poor humans you swiped. Now they’re all awkward and melancholy.

Like popping boners in public, I’d recommend cutting that exercise from your routine.

Although you’re probably not far off track from what our future is going to look like. One day, our antediluvian ojos (heeeeey fourth-grade Spanish) will be ripped out of our sockets and be replaced with extravagant, shiny smart eyeballs. There will be no more swiping, because we can play Flip on a Filter and Find the Hole. You’ll be able to use any warm body and apply filters that appeal to you — then slap on those goddamn woodland creature noses or whatever you kids do these days.

Then, with this advent of technology, gone will be the days of deepthroating booze bottles until dude/broad at the end of the bar looks sparkly cute. With your new smart eyes turned on, simply scan a warm body (not a relative), flip on that Bea Arthur filter, ask for consent (read that again), then bend her over the puke bucket in the back alley of the bar, a setting you have filtered into a bourgeois bathhouse. (“Welcome,” John Travolta says, ushering you into the Squirter Room.)

Meanwhile, Bea’s got you flipped into Fonzie with her fancy filters while you two lovebirds bang in Lady Gaga’s laundry room while Bradley Cooper watches.

Then over here in my eyes, I envision you two as AOC and Adrien Brody (circa 1999). But you’re not smashing genitals, you’re spooning, fully clothed, on a dog bed at some exotic locale.

Maybe a future filled with smart eyes will make relationships last longer. Instead of coming home from a long day to seeing your spouse swimming in empty beer cans while playing video games, you can flip your filter to Joaquin Phoenix doing the dishes. Or Jason Momoa flexing his muscle memory all over your sheets.


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