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Sex-dating, huh? Cold game, man. People swipe, fuck, leave—simple. Like “The Gleaners,” ya know? “I pick what’s left,” they said. Scraps of lust, not love. I dig it, kinda. Quick bangs, no bullshit. But fuck, it’s shallow—pisses me off! Everyone’s a hunter, no soul. Met this chick once—hot, wild. Thought, “She’s mine, da?” Nope, ghosted me—poof! Stats say 40% of hookups flop. No surprise there, eh? Apps like Tinder, Grindr—meat markets. “What’s wasted is gold,” Varda’d say. Gold? More like trash, ha! Used to think sex-dating’s power—control, ya? Wrong. It’s chaos, messy, fun tho. This one time—guy bragged, “50 lays!” Bet half were lies, pathetic. Little secret: 1 in 5 fakes orgasms. Hilarious, right? Keeps me laughin’. Angry too—why lie? Just fuck honest! “Gleaning’s my art,” she said in film. Sex-dating’s art too—dirty, raw. Love the rush, hate the fakes. What’s your take, comrade?

Alex Wheatle obituary

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I work on a dating site here, so trust me, I've seen the best n' worst of folks on these streets. Sometimes, while debugging code at my fav café near Riverside Park (which hugs the gently flowin’ Flatro River), I like to steal glances at families picnicking, old-timers chattin’, and couples just lost in each other. It's like a movie scene from "Oldboy" – the strangest yet most beautiful moments, like “Laugh when you’re in pain!” (yep, totally channeling that bit of Parker Chan-wook magic).

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