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It was the start of summer, and I was finally, officially done with a bad relationship that had run its course. I found myself at Grand Park, took my shoes off and danced in the middle of the water fountain. Tourists took photos. Professionals in designer suits stared. I didn't care. This was my moment.
Afterward, I walked several blocks down to my tattoo artist's shop and acquired fresh ink (a small torch with the Harry Potter quote "Happiness can be found in the darkest of times if one only remembers to turn on the light") from a darling friend at Little Annie Motel Tattoo Parlor. While getting blasted by a needle and colorful ink, I told her my story and began plans for a new future.
I downloaded Tinder, joining the hordes of Angelenos looking for true love in all the wrong places. In one week I had more matches than I had time to speak with. It was overwhelming; I think the number was somewhere close to 90. (Pro tip for all you Tinderites out there: Never put in your bio that you're not looking for nude pics. All people will do is ask you about nude pics. And then you'll find yourself having 90 conversations about nude pics. You don't want that, trust me.)
Next came the actual dates.
A handful were good but not great. The kind...