Brittany, age 29
Neighborhood: Vancouver, WA
Heeding your friends’ advice to stop being so picky with your Tinder swiping, you digress and start swiping right on those photos of seven completely identical shiny blonde girls in brand-new Seahawks jerseys. You have no idea what to say when you and Brittany match, but she goes hard out of the gate and has plans locked down in under five minutes. You wait until after numbers have been exchanged to read her profile, the bulk of which is an incoherent thread of emojis followed by a disclaimer about how she won’t date you unless you’re a non-smoker with a car, a job, and a place of your own. You keep scrolling and find a link to her very active Myspace page that sits where most girls’ Instagram handles would normally be.
Your first date: She doesn’t even flinch when you jokingly suggest the Hooters at Jantzen Beach as a logical halfway point between the two of you. You’re delighted to find out she happens to know half the wait staff on a first-name basis and can still manage to look cute while inhaling a mountain of wings and a gallon of cheap beer.
The inevitable breakup: You start to worry when she stops texting you bathroom selfies 30 times a day, so you take to the internet to do some recon. You find her other Instagram account and come across a photo of her smiling ear to ear because the tattooed, Affliction-wearing ex-marine boyfriend she has a kid with -- neither of which you had any clue about -- finally proposed to her. You block her number, tighten your search radius to “four blocks” and have a second deadbolt installed on your front door.