Siobhan is a strong, career-focused woman who reduces her life to a series of meticulously organised timeslots on her diary. She has less time for bull-shit than a farmer with a hangover.
It’s Friday morning and Siobhan is enjoying the 15-minute time slot she has allocated herself for breakfast. While she slops back yoghurt and muesli she decides to update her account in the wake of several rendevous disasters in the previous month.
She turns to Mr Whiskerston, her cat: “I clearly state that I like Snow Patrol, reading and outdoor musical festivals, so why do I keep attracting lowlife dick pulls?” Mr Whiskerston doesn’t have the answers she needs, he licks his balls and walks off. How fitting, Siobhan’s entire experience summed up perfectly by the feline actions of one furry dickhead.
Siobhan updates her profile photo: a picture of her getting straight gangster wild: that is to say she is wearing a Sombrero at Panchos and is making the peace hand sign. “This photo suggests I am both fun and a bit crazy… and clearly not just up for a root”: stop talking to your fucking cat Siobhan.
She continues updating her profile, “if you are not serious about meeting up, then please don’t message, as I don’t have time for that”. Her profile has all the easy-going charm of a corporate job interview but she did make it clear she was interested in music, so, punters will be forming an orderly queue.
A “satisfactory” option swipes right while Siobhan is smashing through her emails on the bus to work. Private school educated, employed as an Engineer, no facial hair and a haircut you could set your period too: satisfactory indeed.
She swipes back and initiates a conversation. They playfully banter until deciding to grab a drink at a city bar after work. Siobhan loosens her corporate ponytail and removes her jacket to reveal a pastel blue blouse. She may even crack a smile at this rate.
When she spots Derrick she approaches him like a client, shaking his hand and inviting him to sit down. RELAX Siobhan, let the Snow Patrol and Sombreros flow through your stream of inner-calm.
The evening goes pretty well until Derrick reveals his true colours: “my girlfriend won’t be home until later tonight, so why don’t we go home and see what happens?” He levels a wink so greasy that KFC wouldn’t even fry a chicken thigh in it. Derrick may never know how close he came to getting a stiletto to the face.
Siobhan debriefs Mr Whiskerston about the experience and sulks into a bowl of Chicken Twisties. Suddenly, she matches with a buff looking tradie. So she fires off a message.
They chat and she invites him out to meet her and her mates in Leedy on the weekend. Disaster is an understatement. Damo has just come back from Dunsborough and has self-diagnosed “blue balls”.
He is drunk on arrival and spends the night crudely flirting with all of Siobhan’s friends while giving Siobhan a few firm pats on the bum. He also asks her 6 times within the first hour whether her name is a typo.
The night reaches a surreal point when Siobhan walks towards the bar to find Damo furiously swiping right on every single female that comes up on his app. “This isn’t going to happen, fuck off Damo”. Damo has entered stage 3 of a chronic case of Blue Balls. He turns to Siobhan with a pained look on his face, “just touch it…. touch it please… please?”.
The only bigger mess that Siobhan’s Bumble experience is the state of Damo’s bedsheets after he finally taps the keg of frustration that his plums have become.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?