Finally, an app that matches disgruntled singles, not based on shared values but on mutual distain. “Hater” is looking pretty enticing – at least, to those not too bitter to entertain such technology.
Love, as the old saying goes, means never having to say you’re sorry. Which I’ve taken to mean “never having to say you’re sorry for hating everything on his hurtling orb of azure confusion”. I’ve had a long and disappointing romantic career, beset by misconstrued signals and the ease of the apathy I feel when comfortable. The nucleus of this problem is the fact that I paint everything in shade of curmudgeon brown, coupled with my long-running attraction to similarly broken, unavailable people.
If I was to throw blame at the feet of someone, which is something I’m partial to do, those feet would belong to my first meaningful teenage crush: Daria Morgendorffer, Lawndale’s pre-eminent po-faced cynic. Her monotone timbre set my young heart ablaze.
Phwoar. I would.
Since then, it’s been a confused search to find her.
They’ve all loosely shared her attributes: glasses, forward, intelligent. But, basing the choosing of bae on the attributes of a fictional character does not make for the making of kids.
On top of that, I’m a colossal nerd. Reading, cult films, video games, obscure historical trivia, philosophy; all dressed in the frock of insular preference. You could easily call my interests esoteric (colloquially known as “what’s that”, followed by the hinted subtext of “you wanker”). Yes, I’m down with the dead empires of years gone – shout out to the Ming Dynasty, which everyone knows was an absolute lad of a dynasty. Hongwu emperor. Hashtag squad goals.
Anyhow, all of the above adds reason to why I take a kebab home every Saturday evening. I’ve never picked up in a club, or stooped to the hollow echo of dating app platitude, and that won’t change with this new one called Hater, but I must say it’s as close as my prideful thumb has hovered to such a download button.
The app is sort of a reverse Tinder/Grindr/whatevr, one that matches people on what they dislike – be that Donald Trump, Islamophobia, or free love. In place of the predictable dating app norm of selecting the most flattering picture of your member, you essentially get to show the whole dick, which is, of course, yourself.
There is, well, at least for me, a rather chronic flaw in Hater, which is that until your thumb bears its judgement, you know not a potential match’s education (which matters por moi) or their job (which doesn’t), which is a pickle gargantuan in length. After all, it behoves one to have an immediate excuse to torpedo a completely suitable partner.
More than that though, I have this horrible, creeping vibe that the developers of Hater merely ripped off the trope from disparate love story/young Heath unroadworthy vehicle The Ten things I hate about you, as landscaped below:
It’s all subtext, innit.
(Side note: Julia Stiles is no Daria.)
Happy V-Day, haters.