The first step in getting well is to realize you are sick. I am betting more than half saw the TA and thought Tits and Ass. I know I did, that’s why I just wrote it.
Step 1: Admitted we were powerless over Tinder and right swiping, and that when Tinder prevented unlimited swipes unless we paid $2.99 a month, our lives became unmanageable.
Step 2: Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves, i.e. greedy cellphone companies only providing 4GB of data could return us to sanity.
Step 3: Made a decision to turn off our Tinder notifications and our will to the care of God as we understood him.
Step 4: Made a searching and fearless mental inventory of all the dates we’ve had.
Step 5: Admitted to God, ourselves, and someone else even more addicted to Tinder, the exact nature of our wrongs, in words, pictures and videos.
Step 6: We were kind of ready to have God remove some of these defects of character.
Step 7: Humbly asked God to remove fraudulent pictures from profiles and also some of our shortcomings. (I guess premature ejaculation qualifies)
Step 8: Made a list of all dates we harmed and became willing to make amends to most of them.
Step 9: Made direct amends to such dates wherever possible, except when to do so would interfere with their current Tinder matches, damage their self-esteem, or friends, siblings, parents whatever the case may be.
Step 10: Continued to take personal inventory of chats, pics, videos, etc and when we were wrong got around to admitting it the next morning over french toast or eggs.
Step 11: Sought through prayer, meditation and Google, to improve our conscious contact with God, praying only for knowledge of His clever pick up lines, and the power to know which person will think we are being funny and not an ass hole.
Step 12: Having had a spiritual experience (no, last Friday night was not one) as a result of these steps, we tried to carry the message that eventually STD’s and babies are going to happen, so chill, to Tinderholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs (No, don’t be hooking up with married people for fuck’s sake, it means in our daily actions).
Step 13: (Currently being hotly debated in undisclosed pool hall in South Florida).
See the difference? Where as the still sick and suffering Tinder user drug out a tired, sophomoric joke at best, Uranus, and prefaced it with destruction, well…It is no wonder he was told “Bye Felicia.” Yes, a terrible, lonely bye to you moron. That type of selfish self-seeking behaviour reflects poorly on the men of this program. Ladies, after working the steps, we can come up with clever lines, even on a 3G connection from a carrier I’ve never heard of, this is proof positive.
Here’s some experience, strength and hope from a founding member of TA, Bill W:
First of all, it’s a sheer coincidence, the name thing, my last name is Wiener. Go ahead and laugh. Get it out of your systems. Done? When I was younger, we used to actually go out to bars, laundry mats and Whole Foods or Fresh Markets (healthier store=healthier, wealthier ladies). Laundry mats could mean anything, but most of the time college girls and or strippers. You had to look good in reality, have some confidence, and think on your feet, not Google some cheesy fucking pick up line. This is my sponsee by the way:
My first Tinder was in September of 2014, a year after my divorce. She spoke entirely in something I would learn were called emojis. Gone were the days of 🙂 and 😦 or my favorite, 😉 – now I had to determine what raindrops on a cat meant. There’s so many of these damned things. It’s madness. When we met, I must have totally misinterpreted her emojis, because she was actually dressed in a cat costume and wanted me to throw her into the ocean for a bath. When she used the beach as a litter box, I bailed. Still waiting for my amends Catherine, if that even is your real name.
I did fall in love, twice in fact, but who can blame me:
Neither ended well. Leslie attempted to run me over after I failed to ‘rescue’ a rabid racoon, which is one of her passions (along with scooter tuning, vinyl, fish tacos, reading and hooking up), because I said racoons, especially rabies infested ones with children, are not suitable pets and gave up after becoming trapped in a dumpster and almost losing my finger and life to rabies. Yet she was ok with me calling her a fucking lunatic for not taking me to the hospital, instead putting bologna on the wounds.
Devon was indeed free for the first hour, and $200/hour afterwards. Her pimp, Lil’ Smoothie told me at gunpoint that Devon only works in 3 hour shifts, or I needed to sign up for five iPhone 6’s. I choose. I tried the Pretty Woman thing. It failed.
When I first noticed it was becoming a problem, was when I went to Jungle Island solely to get pictures of me and some lemurs, and a baby tiger, to upload my profile. Also to Tinder in Miami. My thumb blistered in 6 minutes. After meeting Poison, who I met after the lemur huggin me pic went live, and talking her into getting a room at the Clevelander because the lemur’s mate was jealous and peed on me, so I needed a shower anyway, coincidence, no such thing as that and all, come over and let’s see what happens.
Then a week later, after seeing women with guns, and Machu Picchu in their profiles, I decided to fly to Peru, sit atop an llama, overlooking MP, and firing an AK-47 into the mountainside, while a crowd of Peruvians cheers me on throwing Lucumas and small bags of cocaine at me. Viva la Wiener was the chant. And would be the only information on my profile, beside a horse and a rooster emojis.
As the matches and messages kept coming, I found myself having dates not just on weekends, but now every other day, and then 7 days a week. Anyone who wanted to pretend we were going out to get to know each other was unmatched, because I couldn’t afford dinners out. Coffee and desserts? You already are 40 pounds heavier than your pictures for fuck’s sake.
I needed something to change. I couldn’t stop. That’s when my smartphone got stolen.
A man came up to me at a local coffee shop in Delray, back then called Spot. I was sobbing uncontrollably, my thumb spasming after not having swiped in a few hours. No calendar, no way to remember who was who and who was meeting me when and where.
“From the way your thumb is all callused, and the way it’s twitching, I am thinking you might be a Tinderholic.”
“Let me tell you a story. I met a mom on Tinder – by the way, I changed my birthday on Facebook, so Tinder would say I was 7 years younger. 34 is the perfect age. I matched up with a 43-yr-old lady called Lola, who had a 22-year-old daughter. Long story short, I slept with them both, separately sadly, and woke up with the clap and wondering which gave me it. What I thought would be a legendary story, turned out to be a trip to the doctor for STD screening. Turns out I picked up herpes too. After all of that, I wanted to go back and have a threesome with them, and I did, but not until after I met Brittany, a real life hooker from Dixie Highway in Lake Worth, who another friend had verified had crabs. That’s not the giving about I’m talking about. That was my rock bottom.”
Surely that couldn’t happen to me…could it? I don’t have health insurance. That’s when I gave up.
Today I have a new Samsung Galaxy 6S Edge. TInder is not installed. Instead I have Plenty of Fish.There’s days when I curse their limitations saved for “Upgraded Users” which costs $3.99 a month. But I remember to stay grateful. That I am not doing breakfast with Raniqua and late-lunch with Sky, maybe I can upgrade. It’s a gift. As I walk up to celebrate one year, to be presented my glow in the dark condom, I can’t help but remember how it was before TA.
Today I try to remember:
Peace of mind is worth far more than a piece of ass.