Like most partially insane people, I had my Tinder days. I first heard about the app from a womanizing friend who claimed it was “revolutionizing the pussy game.” I’ve never been in or even tried to a be a part of “the pussy game,” but I was curious.

In all sincerity, I’m not an out of the gate let’s hook up kind of guy. I’m a get to know you and probably ask some way-too-forward questions guy. It may sound odd, but I want to feel a connection and clear, mutual interest before all the funny business. For those not hip to the lingo, “funny” means genital in this particular scenario.

Tinder didn’t seem fitting in respect to my desires, thus a waste of my time that could potentially make me an even sadder person. It wasn’t long until the ladies of Tinder proved me wrong, however. At the very least it helped lift my self-depreciating spirit. I think we can all admit Tinder manages to be an esteem boost. Short, diabetic kids in cloaks are virtually laying pipe on there for goodness sake. The amount of matches I received genuinely shocked me, and of course encouraged me to keep Tindering. What began as a boredom cure and confidence boost soon progressed into something more meaningful and ultimately consequential.

If a girl and I were absolutely hitting it the hell off in Tinder messages I’d offer them my number. I was texting several girls from the app over the course of a few days. Maureen just stood out from the crowd. Her wavy blonde hair, hazel eyes and curvy frame are what originally pulled me in. Her passions, ambitions, intelligence and caring nature are what had me craving more.

Maureen earned all the possible effort I could put into getting to know and feel for someone via text. We talked throughout the day, everyday. We would occasionally send pictures to make us feel that little bit closer. Getting to see her face upon inquiry made this dream feel so real. It was as if she was right there with me, laughing and expressing contentment.

After 2 months of this passionate, digital affair I concluded we would have to meet. I couldn’t continue falling for this girl without having spent time with her in person. I knew of her age, university, job, hobbies, and dreams. She spoke to me about her past, her family and anything on her mind. I loved a great amount of what she said, and everything about her. Her butt was deserving of several trophies, a holiday and a gentle yet impassioned caress. I couldn’t let feelings further develop when questions still remained.

I suggested hanging at an outdoor mall in my area. It was a reasonable distance for her, and a safe place to meet with a stranger who might be a hairy, mid-60s guy who collects eyelids. She had an excuse for every proposed day. You have to cut your cousin Marcus’ hair on a Friday night? I wasn’t buying it, so I made evident I would end things if we couldn’t make this happen.

She “called Marcus and set another date for the haircut” and agreed to meet up that Friday. I was incredibly nervous as the date approached. Worried both about impressing her and the existing fact she could be a killer, rapist, young Korean boy, etc. I was more than ready all things considered.

Friday arrived and the evening snuck up quickly. I was at my utmost freshest, and even put in my lucky belly button ring for the occasion. I left my diamond Jesus pieces at home as I didn’t want to come off a materialistic braggart. I pulled into the promenade and parked in Barnes & Noble lot, nearly jumping out my skin with excitement and anxiousness.

I gave Maureen a call to let her know I arrived, and realized this would also be the first time I’m hearing her voice. She picked up and I told her with eagerness, though I was unsettled by a voice that didn’t seem to match Maureen’s supposed appearance.

My phone rang a minute later. “Look for the silver SUV,” she said. I turned to my left and saw it parked roughly 20 spaces away. “I see you. Walk towards the red car,” I instructed.

In reality, I expected Maureen 10 pounds heavier at worst. What I saw after stepping out of my car was frightening beyond expectation or imagination. Waddling over to me was a 5-foot pile of super-sized white trash. My mysterious, seemingly perfect soul mate was Peggy from down the street.

Ah, Peggy from down the street. You see, I grew up in a nice neighborhood in a rural, mountainous area. My street consisted of trees and big houses. Further down the road, however, was a trail of houses where their idea of decorating was throwing some living furniture on the front lawn. Peggy was from one of these homes.

Before this disaster I only had 2 run-ins with Peggy, both prior to my teenage years. She disgustingly appalled me on both occasions. Peggy spoke like she was street, first and foremost. It was literally some of the most ignorant language you’d ever here. She had cornrows. I needn’t say more, but I’ll mention she talked a lot about sucking dicks. We were 11 years old. I watched VeggieTales and wasn’t remotely curious about female genitalia. Meanwhile, 11-year old obese, ghettofab white girl is sharing with us a riveting tale about her blowing Antione behind the wall-ball court.

I never saw her since then. From time to time the name “Peggy” came up in conversation and my friends and I would joke about her. When we were around 17 I remember saying, “I bet Peggy has a kid.” My friend Tyler informed me she did. Years later I found out she had 3 kids, from 3 different fathers. Oh, Peggy!

I was disgusted by her early on. For years I was indifferent, viewing her as a creature from the past. Then came the catfish scandal. There she was, the smelly, semen-trapping baby mama who had been toying with me for weeks. My heart dropped heavily. I felt crushed and moronic. I didn’t say anything, and couldn’t. It was her who had talking to do, and the talking she did.

Peggy clearly gained some smarts over the years, seeing as how she articulated sentences beyond “Yo gimme dat dick!” Her explanation wasn’t enough to ease my pain, though. The bottom line was she had a thing for me all those years. She made poor decisions, obviously, and was attempting to win me over. Aware of her revolting appearance and sad living situation, she chose to impersonate a better-looking person and earn my affection.

Here’s the thing – This is a living, terrible nightmare. I’m no suave, strongly desired catch but I bring stuff to the table. I feel worthy of a little more than some tatted, unshapely mother of 3 who has negative relations with the children’s fathers. She knew I wouldn’t be interested, but felt maybe I might be after she deceives me then reveals her identity?

She truly was under the impression something might happen between us. She was apologetic yet continuously welcoming sex. I was far from allured. I would walk through a wide doorway if that was my idea of pleasure.

Although I was the one who should have been hurt, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Peggy. Everything in life went horribly wrong for her. Sure, she made some awful choices and took bad paths, but her upbringing was filled with trauma. I could read within her and see a nice person who deserves so much better than what she’s been given. Unfortunately I was still slightly destroyed emotionally and couldn’t exactly be comforting. I told her I’d like to talk with her, after some weeks pass and I put myself back together.

I have texted Peggy since the incident and still frequently do. She was a distraught person with little hope and no faith who simply needed someone to talk to. I’m glad I can be the guy to take her mind off harsh realities. This whole Tinder meetup was a cruel and eye-opening experience for me. I’m not using it anymore. I’m definitely more skeptical about who I may develop a “thing” with. Most importantly, I’m a lot kinder to 11-year old white girls with cornrows who talk about sucking dicks. You don’t know the struggles they’ve been through.