BumbleF*CK

He’s Irish, and needs a wife. 

I’m a psychologist, and I absolutely don’t need a husband. Ever. I’m quite content to go on a date, have an orgasm, or two if he knows what he’s doing, and be on my merry way. 

Just not with Shea. 

Sounds simple, right? 

Wrong. On every level. 

I think he’s arrogant, and he thinks I’m crazy. 

I think he’s in trouble, and he thinks a dating app is the answer. 

Whatever floats his boat, I guess. 

Unfortunately, I develop a penchant for studying him, and now, he has a penchant for irritating me. I don’t understand half the things that come out of his mouth — I’m not stupid, he just has an accent — and he ignores almost everything that comes out of mine, especially when I’m telling him to leave me alone. I thought my push-back was stronger, but it’s no match for his determination. And he invalidates my theory that it’s impossible to lose your mind. Because when I see that one little line on his dating profile, that’s exactly what happens. I lose my mind. Or maybe he blows my mind in bed, I’m not sure. Either way, I come to hate the idea of him marrying a stranger on an app, and offer to be his solution instead. Sure, we’re compatible in bed, but even I know that’s not enough to sustain any kind of relationship, and that falling in love doesn’t just happen. Wrong again. 

Maybe he is better off marrying a BumbleF*CK. 

Or maybe, I’ve just met my match.