During my freshman year, I decided to make a Tinder profile. I was in my room bored as usual, and I thought that Tinder would add some excitement to my life. I was intrigued by the satisfaction of matching with a complete stranger. I was hoping for great conversations, butterflies, new experiences, and A-1 flirting. I wanted the rush of excitement that came with each notification that someone liked me. It was a quantitative 
reminder that someone was crushing on me.
Prior to Tinder, my only experience with dating was weak DMs and noncommital boys at my high school that wanted me to fix them. Also, I was a permanent resident of the friend zone. Because my parents worked at my high school, the dating pool was slim. Everyone was either dumb, childish, intimidated or scared of my family. I believed that college would allow me to engage with a different caliber of Black men. I was mistaken.
Dating has always been difficult for me. As a black plus size woman, the dating poll is basically non-existent at school. Ideally, I would love to date a black man. However, the black men left were looking for a woman like me. Because the “scarcity of eligible Black men may drive [Black women] to date outside of their race”, I knew that I had to alter my dating expectations (Wilson 965).
My friend overheard that a black man was “saving” a beautiful black woman for later. What does that F does that mean?
Because my awkwardness made me oblivious to recognizing that someone had a crush on me, I went to Tinder. I wanted to avoid the middle stage of acknowledging that we found each other attractive.
My profile was perfect. I had glamor shots, tasteful selfies, and goofy pictures of me that highlighted my AWESOME. I laid everything out on the table. In efforts to control my virtual image, I made sure that I had pictures with varying hairstyles and representations of my whole body. Unfortunately, our virtual images “are limited by the already circumscribed power relation of [real life]” (Sharpe 1093). I wanted to know that whoever swiped right understood my unapologetic blackness and my comfort with my body. I had to understand that “it is not simply that we can be more honest about race issues on the Internet because we are not accountable but that the personas we create (even if they begin as ‘us’) start to take on lives of their own in relation to those whom they encounter” (Sharpe 1094). I cannot control how one would interpret my Tinder profile. However, I do have the ability to fashion a profile that would attract people who would appreciate me for me.
Unfortunately, Tinder was a waste of time. I wished that someone would have slapped the dogshit out of me when I made the account. I went to Tinder for the answers to what I wanted in a relationship. I wanted to live 
within the illusion of dating freedom and unlimited options. I would have conversations with men from all racial backgrounds. The conversation topics would be as bland as do you have siblings to extremely vulgar and unprovokedly sexual. There were a few nice guys who asked to meet up, however, it is hard to trust someone’s online presence. I know that I crafted my best self, so it is only reasonable for someone else to do the same.
However, Tinder has taught me three crucial facts: 1) The match notification bell is just annoying, 2) Stimulating conversation is RARE, and 3) ALL OF THE MEN ARE UGLY IN THE ZIP CODE OF 01267.
But does this stop me from swiping No.
Sadly, I feel like if I stop my option will decrease.
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