The entire notion of online dating makes me want to vomit. People posting what they consider to be their most flattering images, listing hobbies they haven’t done since high school, all under the pretence of finding a significant other. It’s like a database of the world’s narcissists. And I’m one of them.

Alexis, 28 years old (5 years ago) - an adventurous (lazy), outgoing (I hate people) journalist (up until last week. I got fired for not playing by the rules). I’m a big book worm (the only honest thing in this profile) who spends her weekends rock climbing followed by nights out on the town with my girls (I’d rather stick needles under my fingernails).

And here’s my supposed soul mate:

Brian, 30 years old - psychology research assistant at NYU (awesome, he has brains, maybe he can tell me what’s wrong with me), interests include gourmet coffee, 1940s film noir, and bowling.

I hear ya, on paper we seem like two people who wouldn’t even glance at each other. And that was no different in person. He turned up at my door and my first impression was, how do you say, like he had a stick up his ass. The man was wearing a bow tie with tiny images of Freud. At dinner, a mediocre Chinese restaurant of his choosing, his game was to bore me to death with pretentious psychobabble about the cognitive benefits of cycling. Just what every gal wants to hear. I was a hairpin away from crawling out of the bathroom window when he said something that piqued my interest. And that one thing dominoed me to this moment, walking down the aisle to the woman I love. Thank god I left Brian, and his id, ego and superego to his chow me in when I did. I walked out that front door and never looked back.