The Tinder Tales

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So let’s talk Tinder. Because that happened recently!

And using this app in the modern-day quest for love (or, in my case, a human – hotwater bottle for the Winter months!) is proving to be an amusing (or bemusing even?) affair.

I had to talk to you guys about it. All the weird pec pics, the grown-men behind the snapchat filters, the endless small talk…

And then there’s me. And the funny theories I use to make the rapid judgement between a swipe left and a swipe right (though I’m still not sure which way is which! lol)

So get ready with me and prepare for Real Talk. Candid-stylee. From a grown-ass woman, (whom struggles to pronounce the words ‘Financial Analysis’ in a sentence – but does enjoy the occasional profanity. – (You have been warned! lol))

I laughed a lot whilst filming this, longer-than average Tale of Tinder woes. I also cringed a fair amount.

And then I deleted the app. Content with extracting only material to amuse. The quest for Winter Warmth continues! hahaha

If you enjoy this video please hit the Thumbs Up button and don’t forget to Subscribe to my Youtube Channel for more!

I mean. How could you not want more?! lol

Love to all!

Thanks for watching!

Steph
Xx

 

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If Memories Lived in a Bank…

 

Tis a peculiar place, that where memories reside. Peculiar still that they call it a ‘bank’ when it’s really nothing of the sort.

In a bank assets are stored. Neatly. Sequentially. With order and reason.

One may consciously choose to select a memory at any given time, to access that data, analyse it, delete it even. Deposit new memories. It would make sense.

But the place where memories reside is not a database. And it cares little for reason or sense.

The place where memories reside is more like a pool. Fluid. Abstract. Prone to distortion.

Memories float. Some lurk in the depths, some drift to the surface. Some are such permanent fixtures. Staking a significant spot, standing the test of time, yet slowly becoming hidden by moss.

In this pool, of tantalising temptation, memories drift, sometimes they sink. Sometimes they plunge straight to the bottom, causing waves and dragging ones soul into darkness and despair. They can twist themselves into a vortex. They can lie.

Memories. The past instantaneously becoming the present. A flashback! Days gone by. History. His story. Your story. Mine.

If memories really lived in a bank I’d like to think they’d be 100% unequivocally reliable.

Accurate views of events. Captured in HD. All 365 degrees. That way they’d be irrefutable replicas of who, what, where, when and how.

We couldn’t question them.

If memories lived in a bank our records would match precisely. And we could replay our mutual scenes, with confidence and conviction, knowing we witnessed the exact same thing.

But the place where memories reside isn’t a bank. And it doesn’t care for clarity.

It was never crystal clear to begin with. How could it be? The data was constructed by another force entirely. Perception.

You see the place where memories reside is governed by perception.

Your goggles, my goggles.

Perception. Now that is something peculiar…