and so it came to pass that many
have tried to date me but all have failed
for I am not a simple swipe right
but rather an ancient riddle wrapped
in a modern enigma stuffed inside
a takeout container of destiny

the prophecy speaks of one
who shall master the art
of properly loading the dishwasher
according to the scrolls of my preference
(the ancient texts are very specific
about which way the spoons should face)

dating apps bow before my profile
like pilgrims at a digital shrine
while algorithms whisper legends
of the one whose bio reads
"must be able to decode my silence
and interpret my spotify playlists"

those who came bearing red flags
found them transformed to dust
for my standards are not forged
in mortal foundries but tempered
in the fires of therapy sessions
and grandmother's disapproving sighs

and so I wait atop my tower
of unfinished books and coffee mugs
while suitors attempt to solve
the paradox of my existence
(the answer is 42 but also
none of the above, simultaneously)