I will not swipe in Chicago, I will not swipe in Chicago…

*slaps hand* No, I won’t—not because I’m not dying to know what the inventory is like here in my hometown, but because I haven’t given myself enough time this trip to do more than catch up with family and friends, get my hair done (because I’ve been going to the same guy since I lived here over 20 years ago), and maybe make some progress on launching this blog some of you have been begging for…

I must not make the mistake of over-scheduling myself in the future. Because…research. Plus, I’m always looking for a good reason to come home to visit. Other than Mom, a good guy would be plenty good reason enough for me.

But seriously, long distance relationships suck. I was thinking this the other day, while bantering with “A Bronx Tale” (yes, the Bronx is long distance from Brooklyn), who has been conspicuously silent since…

That, of course, leads me to think about the 43(!) so-called “matches” who have neglected to say anything at all in the three days-to-weeks since we both swiped right. I mean: I’m here, you’re here… What gives, Dude?

Michael Arceneaux beautifully illustrated this scenario today in Ebony:

“Picture it: Me, on my iPhone 6…scrolling through Tinder looking for, uh, love or something. As I swipe left through a sea of bugawoofs, weirdos, and White guys old enough to have voted for Ronald Reagan, I spot a bae. In my head, I instantly think, “Jesus, let us match”…

And he swiped me too! And it’s ON.

Except not much happens afterwards. Why? Because the handsome, but nonetheless useless somebody turns into a less friendly version of Casper the Ghost.”

About the author

Who me? I'm just your average Grammy-nominated goddess next door. May I borrow a cup of sugar? But seriously: I'm a musician, model, writer, all-around creative and devoted auntie. Like you, I'm just out here in the universe, trying to make it happen...whatever that is.