(Sigh) Twenty-five quid for this. My feet are already bleeding, and I’m pretty sure I just paid to interview unemployed strangers. Down the hatch, Pinot. Table number one, a finance bro named Chad, With a crypto portfolio that’s really not that bad. He’s fresh from Bali, he eats a lot of meat, While I map the fastest exit to the middle of the street. He talked for four whole minutes, didn't ask me for my name, Just bragged about his hustle and his alpha-male game. He says his market yields are hot, but honestly, I fear, His "short-term gains" apply to what he's packing in his gear. "Aww, bless him." Oh, welcome to the meat market, the rapid-fire race! Where I judge your whole existence by the stubble on your face! It’s a desperate little carousel, my twenties slipping by, And my biological clock is screaming, "Bitch, you’re gonna die!" (Tick-tock, tick-tock) Ding! Time to switch! Table number two, a beanie on his head, An oversized linen shirt, "I’m not like them," he said. He trauma-dumps about his mom, he asks about my sign, I’m nodding while I deeply mourn my empty glass of wine. He says he does some yoga, he aligns his chakras well, And read a feminist blog to learn where female buttons dwell. He claims he is an expert, making all the ladies sing, I cringed so hard I nearly choked upon my own tongue ring. "Ugh, please stop talking." Welcome to the meat market, the rapid-fire race! Where I judge your whole existence by the stubble on your face! It’s a desperate little carousel, my twenties slipping by, And my biological clock is screaming, "Bitch, you’re gonna die!" (Tick-tock, tick-tock) Host: (Aggressively rings desk bell). Ding. Time's up. Ladies move left, gentlemen stay seated. And please... stop crying in the booths. Table number three, the final fateful bell, I sit down and I realize I've reached the gates of hell. It's Dave. From Hinge. Three years ago. The guy I chose to ghost, The one who thought a single thrust was something he could boast. We sit in total silence, our smiles are fake and tight, Pretending that we get laid like rockstars every night. "Hahaha... ha. Kill me." Welcome to the meat market, the rapid-fire race! Where I judge your whole existence by the stubble on your face! It’s a desperate little carousel, my twenties slipping by, And my biological clock is screaming, "Bitch, you’re gonna die!" The buzzing stops. I check my card. A massive, blank white space. I grab my coat, swipe some Prosecco, and I leave this place. I’m in the Uber going home, the night a total bust... (Sighs heavily) Alright, Tinder, let’s go again. Needs must.
