I previously wrote a post where I mentioned I deleted all dating apps off my phone and how glorious and free I felt for finding myself in doing that. But then I got bored. My roommates went to bed. I had homework I didn’t want to do and clothes I didn’t want to fold. And I already cleaned the bathroom. So I downloaded that inane app known as Tinder.

For a few minutes, I sat on my couch swiping left, right, up, down, and diagonally. I also updated my profile to say, “Looking for someone to go to awkward pregames with where you only know the host, but haven’t seen them in four years. And other activities.” I then deleted the “And other activities” addendum because it sounded a bit too suggestive (“What are these other activities?”).

In my hiatus from Tinder, a new feature had become available: the Super Like. Aside from being able to swipe left or right on someone (left means “hell no, get away” and right means “Please message me, I think you’re hot”), you can now “Super Like” someone. Basically, if you Super Like someone, they will see you liked them when your profile pops up on their phone screen – as opposed to having to swipe right and simply seeing if you match.

What makes the Super Like even more drastic is, you can only do once per day. Talk about committing!

The Super Like is the equivalent to a marriage proposal in these commitmentphobic times. Okay, I exaggerate. But it is pretty heavy-handed for a generation who often hooks up before they ever go on a “genuine date” (whatever a genuine date is; who can afford one anyway?). Let me tell a stranger how irrevocably I am attracted to them based on their six 600x600 pixel images and a profile listing their Instagram username and height.

The Super Like is just waiting for you to accidentally bare your soul. Which, eff that.

I bet you can guess where this anecdote is headed. Yeah, it’s not good. The problem is, I don’t know who I bared my soul to.

Here’s what happened: I decided to retire to my bed. I turned off the light and continued swiping. After thirty seconds on my one side, I rolled to my other. In the process I dropped my phone onto my pillow. I went to snatch it back, and my thumb tapped the Super Like button. I don’t even remember what popped up other than something along the lines of “You’ve Super Liked Them!”

But wait. Who did I Super Like?

I can’t even make a joke about the person’s profile because I don’t know who I Super Liked. I don’t know whose profile I was on. Maybe they’re gorgeous and deserve my unadulterated confession of attraction – or maybe I wouldn’t even swipe right to them on a sunny day. But now I’ve basically proposed.

I take it back, I take it back! This is like Supersizing at McDonald's and then seeing the calorie count. No, I don't want it anymore.

I instantly relayed this crisis to my friend who remarked, “When you drop your phone and your standards.” Touché.

Me: “It’s like nuking a country, but I don’t know which one. I don’t even know which continent.”

And what if this person asks me why I nuked them? What if they're into me? And I am a guilt-driven person. I can already see myself being like "Yeah, we should get coffee," meanwhile complaining to my friends who will ask, "Why then did you ask her to coffee?"

"Because I led her on with the Super Like!"

Shortly after this, I ran out of matches in my area and put my phone, now a dangerous weapon, to bed. All in a night’s work: telling someone I love them without even seeing their face.

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