Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Since I enjoy an active social life, that’s not an option. So a few years ago I started experimenting with sleep schedules, and I finally found one that works for me. I go to bed at midnight most nights, wake up at four, go to work—which ends around eleven—eat a light lunch, and then nap from noon to four. It took a couple weeks for my body to figure out what I was doing, but now I’ve trained it to function off a split schedule. I feel fully rested after each four-hour sleep session.
My cat is snuggled up next to me—her usual place during my mid-day nap. I give her a scratch on the back of her neck. “Hey, Dodo.”
She stretches and slinks to the other side of the bed.
Her Christian name is Rosanna, but I’ve called her Dodo from the day I adopted her because it was clear she didn’t have a single thought in her pretty little head. But she’s sweet as all get out, almost more dog than cat in personality. She might not have two brain cells to rub together, but she’s mine and I love her.
Dodo knows she gets her dinner after my nap, and she starts mewing as I rub my eyes and let out a yawn.
“I’m coming, sweet pea. One sec.” I get on my feet and pad to the kitchen, pour a measured quantity of kibble into Dodo’s little bowl. I toss a pod into my Nespresso and sit down on a cushy wingback chair I found in a nearby thrift shop to check my messages. No texts, and the only emails I have are from people trying to sell me something. I swipe them all away, grab my cup of coffee—no milk or sugar, thank you—and try to figure out what to do with the rest of my day.
It’s Thursday. I could go out.
Only problem is I can’t stand anyone I work with.
Okay, that’s not exactly true. I tolerate most of my colleagues. Micaela Fields, one of the two of the main anchors on ChicagO2, is the only one I truly dislike. She can go fuck herself up her fake ass with a cactus as far as I’m concerned.
I had a group of close friends who lived around here, but most of them have gotten married, moved away, or both. If I want to go out, which I do enjoy, it’s usually for a date.
And my God, have I kissed a lot of frogs.
I’ve long stood by my sad theory that the problem with dating apps is that you have to date people who use dating apps. A lot of weirdos lie in wait behind their phones, and you can’t suss out the rapidly diminishing population of normal people from the freaks as easily as you’d like. Believe me, I’ve tried. A lot of people are really adept at disguising themselves as regular guys through text, but the moment you meet them face to face it’s clear you’re on a date with another clown that fell off the circus train.
Okay, maybe I’m being a little hyperbolic. I’ve dated some decent guys. The problem is the ones who aren’t freaks are bone-crushingly boring.
It doesn’t help that I’m something of a local celebrity. A lot of people see my profile and assume I’m catfishing them, as if I’m some pimpled monstrosity using the photos of the hot weather girl from O2 News to land a date with someone way out of her league. The AI boom hasn’t helped things, either. I used to be able to send a selfie to prove who I am, but anymore people can just ask a bot to create a fake photo of me.
Maybe I’ll just die alone. I only ask that Dodo observe a respectable period of mourning before she starts to eat my body.
I laugh out loud at the thought. Better than crying, I suppose.
All that said, I’d really like to go out tonight. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve done anything. At the very least, it’s been a while since I got laid. I wouldn’t mind hooking up with a hot guy, clear a few cobwebs.
I swipe to the folder—appropriately labeled STOP IT SLUT—on my phone where I keep my dating apps. Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, the works. None of them have yielded anything.
Maybe there’s a new dating app. One the weirdos haven’t found yet.
I have no idea where to start.
And then fate intervenes. I open my email and see an ad for a new dating app.
Discover new places—and meet your twin flame—on Twistr!
I click on the link, praying it’s not malware. It takes me to the app store. The Twistr app has a cute icon of a cartoon tornado with heart eyes on it. That alone sells it.
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