Dating App Horror Stories: The Time I Matched With Someone Who Believed Birds Aren’t Real

I matched with someone who believed birds were government surveillance drones. That was her opener, not the twist. This was not a satire date or a prank show. This was my actual Tuesday night. And yes, I still paid. Like a man. Like a moron.

She said birds aren’t real. Her eyelashes tried to take flight mid-sentence. I just ordered another drink and prayed for turbulence.

Why I’m Still on Dating Apps (Despite Everything, Including Myself)

I treat dating apps like expired medicine. I know they won’t help, but I keep reaching for them when I feel off.

Every few weeks I delete them in a dramatic flourish—“That’s it. No more! I’m focusing on myself.” Then I reinstall Hinge three days later because someone made eye contact at the grocery store and I convinced myself I was ready to love again.

These apps aren’t about finding someone. They’re about delaying the existential truth that I will die alone, but probably still subscribed to Bumble Premium.

Her Profile Was Already a Red Flag, But I Thought It Was a Picnic Blanket

Let’s talk about her dating profile. Because hindsight is a luxury, and I was clearly shopping for a red flag clearance sale.

Her photos? Normal enough—borderline forgettable, which should’ve been my first clue. One blurry selfie in a mirror with toothpaste speckles. One shot from too far away where she’s either petting a golden retriever or shaking hands with a taxidermy bear—I still don’t know. One photo of her standing in a field, arms out like she was auditioning to be the human logo for gluten-free wheat.

But then there was the bio:

“Truth seeker. Coffee addict. Ask me about birds.”

“Ask me about birds”? Like it was a fun icebreaker, like “Two Truths and a Lie” or “What’s your Hogwarts house?”

I thought maybe it was ironic. Maybe she worked at a wildlife sanctuary. Maybe she was one of those wholesome weirdos who puts out suet cakes and names the squirrels. A little crunchy, sure, but not clinical.

And honestly? I’d been on worse dates. One girl asked if we could sit in silence for the first 15 minutes “to establish energetic polarity.” Another said she was “off soap” and used “sunlight and friction” instead.

So “Ask me about birds”? Fine. At least she had a hook.

That was my mistake. I mistook delusion for branding.

The Pre-Date Banter Was Lightly Concerning, Like a Cough That Lasts Too Long

The messaging started off… fine. Not charming. Not alarming. Just enough that I thought maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have to fake an emergency exit before the entrees arrived.

Me: “Hey, coffee or cocktails?”

Her: “Coffee. Always black. Like the government’s heart.”

Me: “…Haha, birds?”

Her: “They’re not real. Happy to explain :)”

That smiley face? A landmine. I mistook it for irony. What it really meant was, “I brought infographics.”

Still, her grammar was impeccable and she hadn’t asked me about my birth time—two green flags. I figured if she was insane, she was at least well-written insane. That’s rare.

I went in with cautious optimism, the same way you press “Install” on an unverified Chrome extension and just hope your computer survives.

The Date: A Latte and a Lecture (and Possibly a Glitch in the Simulation)

She arrived ten minutes late in a shirt that said “Drones Don’t Poop.” I thought: haha, ironic.

It wasn’t.

She never made eye contact. Not once. I started to wonder if she was on a date with someone across the street and I was just an emotional body double. She acknowledged me occasionally, like a ghost nodding at a priest mid-exorcism.

She wasn’t my type. But I still looked at her—like a gentleman evaluating a Craigslist couch before deciding it smelled like wet paper and despair.

And then she talked about birds.

The Red Flags Were Flapping Like Wings in a Wind Tunnel (Literally)

She had eyelashes so long I thought they were wings. Ironic, coming from a woman who thought birds were CIA drones. She had glued plastic gems along the seams of each eyelid, sparkling like a disco ball at a toddler beauty pageant.

The appetizers arrived. A tray of oysters the size of a hubcap. She ordered it like she was carbo-loading for a sprint triathlon.

I was already full—from dread, from regret, from my own poor judgment.

She ordered four margaritas.

Then she ordered dinner.

“You’re still hungry?” I asked.

She blinked slowly—wings fluttering like a hummingbird in drag—and nodded.

And it hit me: I was embarrassed. Not just because I was on a date with someone who had drones on her shirt and rhinestones on her face, but because I paid for it.

The Conversation Turned from Concerning to Classified

By entrée, she had a full TED Talk going. She referenced government documents, Facebook groups, and something she called “the feather files.”

She asked me, “Have you ever seen a baby pigeon?” as if it were a mic-drop.

I said, “No… but I’ve never seen my neighbor do laundry either. Doesn’t mean he’s not real.”

She didn’t laugh.

I tried to focus on my risotto. I don’t remember eating it. I think I blacked out somewhere between “avian surveillance grid” and “feathered psy-op.”

The Exit Strategy (Mine, Not the Birds’)

Then came dessert—chocolate lava cake, obviously.

She leaned in and asked:

“Have you ever seen a bird recharge?”

I said, “Like… sleep?”

She said, “No. Plug in. On power lines. They’re charging.”

I stared at her. I smiled. I paid.

I told her I had an early morning and that I was in a season of “digital detoxing.”

She nodded knowingly. “Smart. The algorithm’s watching.”

The Aftermath: I Deleted the App. Again. Too Many Dating App Horror Stories

I walked home in silence, like a soldier returning from battle. I deleted the app for the third time that month. Told myself I’d focus on journaling. Maybe get back into hiking. Maybe therapy.

But I know the truth.

I’ll reinstall Hinge the next time someone asks about my weekend and I don’t want to say, “I stared at the wall and wondered if pigeons are secretly government interns.”

Do you have dating app horror stories?