“WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?”
I look down at my outfit: a version of the same cereal-stained, big-jumper-and-leggings combo I have been sporting for the last four weeks, and tell the easiest lie I will utter that day.
Interactions like this—with another faceless softboi on yet another mindless dating app—have become my drug of choice over the last year. Well, I am not even sure it is a choice any more. More like a form of habitual self-medication determined by market factors. A new batch of an old substance that has flooded the system, in the total absence of any other new highs.
I, like other single women across the land, used to get my hits from other places. A fleeting look on the road held for a little longer than usual. A deeper inhalation in a lift the day
