He’s Irish, and needs a wife.

I’m a psychologist, and I absolutely don’t need a husband. Ever.
I’m quite content to go on a date, have an orgasm, or two if he knows what he’s doing, and be on my merry way.

Just not with Shea.

Sounds simple, right?

Wrong. On every level.

I think he’s arrogant, and he thinks I’m crazy.

I think he’s in trouble, and he thinks a dating app is the answer.

Whatever floats his boat, I guess.

Unfortunately, I develop a penchant for studying him, and now, he has a penchant for irritating me. I don’t understand half the things that come out of his mouth — I’m not stupid, he just has an accent — and he ignores almost everything that comes out of mine, especially when I’m telling him to leave me alone. I thought my push-back was stronger, but it’s no match for his determination. And he invalidates my theory that it’s impossible to lose your mind. Because when I see that one little line on his dating profile, that’s exactly what happens. I lose my mind. Or maybe he blows my mind in bed, I’m not sure. Either way, I come to hate the idea of him marrying a stranger on an app, and offer to be his solution instead. Sure, we’re compatible in bed, but even I know that’s not enough to sustain any kind of relationship, and that falling in love doesn’t just happen. Wrong again.

Maybe he is better off marrying a BumbleF*CK.

Or maybe, I’ve just met my match.

Tinder.

The bane of my existence.

But with my 30th birthday around the corner, I’m feeling the heat to jump into the deep end with both feet. Except, it’s not deep at all. It’s a kiddies pool filled to the brim with unsolicited pecker portaits, and ‘hey babe, wanna b@ng’. So when the first sem-decent guy, fifteen years my senior, swipes right, I think I might be one of the lucky ones.

Until I’m not.

Tinder.

The bane of my existence.

Only because my triplets thought it would hilarious to sign me up without my knowledge.

It’s a disaster in the making, but considering my first marriage ended badly, I decide to jump feet first into the dating dumpsterfire. And the flames are too hot for my liking.

But then my children swipe right on a woman fifteen years my junior, and I think maybe I’m willing to risk the flames.

Until I’m not.

The circus is a holy tent, the keeper of my rhyme