Five reasons the Internet is incredibly on-point right now

1. It shows the world how enlightened Europeans can really be:

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Like Tinder, I’ll never take a site like this seriously, which can only mean it’s perfect. It’s only a matter of time before the U.S. gets its hands on this and my friends find a way to either end my social life or get me married. In which case, my profile would look much more like my actual self and much less like my OKCupid façade. I imagine a majority of my friends would describe me as “a 22-year-old cluster-fuck of sensitivity with terrible timing, luck and very little grace.” I wouldn’t like my picture and my hobbies would likely include “ordering off of GrubHub,” “sitting” and “spilling my beer.”

2. It graced us with this:

Love or loathe her, Miley is a household name right now; one of those that make you vaguely itchy when you say it because the NSA is probably keeping track and you don’t want to admit that you actually think Miley is kind of cool (I say this very loosely and I am very itchy).

Cinematography is insane – and what’s crazy about this promo is that it’s so well done that it made me fucking love her and, at the minute mark, I think I even respect her. I may not want to straddle a crane but I wouldn’t mind shooting a hot-dog gun.

3. Tweets like this:

4. This amazing moment from Merritt Wever was immediately made into a GIF:

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5. This picture of Mitt Romney making a baby cry back in 2012 made a comeback this week and is archived for eternity at #5 on Huffington Post’s 35 Hilariously Awkward Politician-Children Encounters:

Romney 2012

Hallelujah.

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Because, Monday

Pledge allegiance to the struggle.

Note-to-self: 10 clues I left for myself in my phone

May 21, 2012, 5:01 PM
“I’ve been notebooked. Everybody was crying and at the end I had no idea what happened”

November 15, 2012, 9:18 PM
Slow walkers

December 1, 2012, 1:14 AM
“Well fuck me silly if the last three years haven’t been about you” bathroom stall

February 5, 2013, 12:26 AM
Appreciate everything, regret nothing

June 17, 2013, 7:49 PM
Bowling league

June 17, 2013, 11:25 PM
I have been outsmarted by a jukebox where do I put my dollar

July 2, 2013, 10:06 PM
“You’re gonna fuck this little girl, and then you’re gonna fuck all of us?”

July 27, 2013, 12:23 AM
Check your vine

July 31, 2013: 8:07 PM
Ashton to Jameo: 47

September 19, 2013, 10:15 PM
“I got yelled at by a homeless for looking homeless and not being homeless today”

Not OK, OKCupid

Dear OKCupid,
It’s not you, it’s me.

We all have a friend with faith in online-dating.

A year and a half ago, mine did dinner and drinks with an online-match on the Upper East Side. After a round of overpriced cocktails and mediocre banter, her date mentioned he was low on cash. As he reached for his card, my girlfriend caught her breath, only to almost choke on it.

“You want to give me cash for yours?” he asked confidently, nodding at her half-finished cranberry-vodka.

And so the story goes, she handed him seven dollars and never saw him again.

No; this was not where her credence came in. Nor is it from where my curiosity stemmed. Both came later in the form of a real-life, totally not-creepy long-term relationship with a genuinely good guy. Truth be told, I haven’t seen her this happy since the release of SkinnyGirl our sophomore year. Bethany Frankel may have let her down, but Plenty of Fish did not.

My inevitable interest caused me some concern.

I am an admitted victim of overpriced high-waisted shorts with standards just as unreasonably high as (if not higher than) the cost of my pre-worn denim. Single sans the mingle, I spent this year scoffing at potential suiters, so much so that I can no longer differentiate flirting from friendly conversation.

Here’s how it typically goes:

“Meg. That guy is hitting on you. Talk to him.”

FYI: the tap-on-your-opposite-shoulder-to-get-you-to-look-the-other-way approach will not make you part of the 1%.

Soon, the seemingly subtle engagement announcements wedged between important opinions on Miley and Molly hit me like a wrecking ball. High-quality muploads of soon-to-be-newlyweds under the Brooklyn Bridge flood in like Fall, shoving their conveniently-manicured left hands as far in our faces as everything fucking pumpkin.

My girlfriend and her perfect match are coming up on their one-year anniversary, and then there’s me.

The closest thing I have to a committed relationship is with the barista at Starbucks who thinks my name is Maggie. I’m captaining a well-caffeinated sinking ship, so this summer I took the plunge.

Not only did I hope online-dating would lower my senseless standards – part of me half-expected to receive a mail-order boyfriend in three to six business days. This was my first cue to abandon ship:

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It took some deliberation but I decided not to shout my love for Mexican cuisine from the rooftops of the Internet as OKCupid so thoughtfully expected me to. I went with another variation of my first and last names, cringing with every finalizing click.

According to my profile, I am an Instagram-filtered Fireball enthusiast with a part-time job in journalism. My special skills include Netflix binging, putting quotes around things like “finding myself” and eating Chipotle.

Twelve middle-aged visitors later and the messages came rolling in. Like this one, for instance:

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And this one:

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Soon, people were starting to be honest with me:

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And I mean really honest:

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Thank you, gray-scale 23/M/Astoria in snow-cap. I can’t say that I have, but my third grade teacher taught me to keep trying. After all, there are keepers like this guy (for anonymity, I’ll leave out his username but tell you it has “Tiesto” in it):

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Thanks, Dean. Unfortunately I’m not sure we’re right for each other. Life is too hard down here at 5’2.

The Magic Hour is Now

Since we’re at the beginning, allow me to go back.

TimeHop and I are in an open relationship. The commitment-free kind where we avoid public eye-contact but hook-up on Friday nights. Some evenings, it brings me pure, unadulterated pleasure in the form of old photos and recovered retweets while others, it shatters my heart into a million jagged pieces. Most nights, TimeHop stands me up, left alone with still-frames of college day-kegs and a half-eaten tub of Ben & Jerry’s.

This week, we’re on speaking terms (sort-of).

This time last year, I was blacking out at Beechmont Tavern for Halfway to Saint Patrick’s Day, still lugging around unnecessary baggage from a melodramatic breakup and, of course, still nursing a gnarly knee-scrape from Labor Day. (Subtly wondering how I still had friends,) I was suiting up for senior year.

Roughly 365 days later, I can safely say: It has been quite the fucking ride.

I watched my cousin get married while, less than 48 hours earlier, I was holding a fraction of my front tooth in my palm after an average elbow-meets-beer-bottle-meets-face incident in a crowded bar.

“Just wear it down with a nail-file,” said a girl on line for the bathroom. I did not take her advice.

I survived the almost-apocalypse, frequent near-death games of civil war, approximately ten to twelve gin buckets and one six-day trip to Puerto Rico with almost 20 of my closest friends. I lived through my first seven minutes behind the wheel of a car (I can’t say the same for the passenger…kidding, though his head did hit the windshield and that is no fucking joke).

I decided to put half a handle of vodka in a pitcher of boxed-sangria and, somehow, no one died.

I moved from one home to another, 20 miles away from girls I hadn’t lived farther than 10 feet from in four years. I finally got closure from above-mentioned breakup in the form of an 18-speed-mountain bike gifted to me three years earlier. I said dozens of painful goodbyes, one of which was to said ex-boyfriend’s mother whom I no longer had a valid reason to see. But, the hardest goodbyes were to the gals I no longer shared a lease with.

I graduated with a degree in what I love, treading carefully across the stage at Radio City; the gauze around my post-senior-formal feet clearly visible.

My mother was punched in the face by a Hell’s Angel — and then she got cancer.

In three months that felt like years, my mom beat cancer and still holds onto her sanity through remission, minus that time she thought she saw the Notre Dame mascot in a bruise on her arm. I sat shot-gun in a cross-country roadtrip to Chicago, saw Lil Jon live at Lollapalooza, browned out at Wrigley Field and spent one-third of my Chase savings on a shot of v8. I spent five days with ten boys who, in between literally choking each other out and blaring Miley Cyrus on repeat, made me feel like one of the guys.

I took a job that I adore. I saw Shaggy live. I made it to 22.

About a year ago, a good friend referred me to the record “Would It Kill You” by Hellogoodbye and, in an intimate drunken stupor, repeated the lyrics to me: “Would it kill you just to let it all work out?”

I’ve spent a year free from the reigns, letting life fall into place.

A year later, I’ll pull from the band’s new single, less than one week old:

The thing about the sun is that it’s gonna set and rise again, over you.

The magic hour is now because we’re not guaranteed another.

To make a long story short, consider this an introduction of sorts. I’ll be using this platform for good (and for evil), sampling some of my deepest, darkest and painfully honest thoughts on life, love, the pursuit of happiness, dating websites, binge drinking, tracksuits and more.

Cheers to another year in life and in writing.