I alternate between two modes on OKCupid: Wanting my profile to get more attention, and regretting whatever I’ve done wrong to warrant the sort of attention it does get. I decide the profile must be the problem; I dashed it off quickly and only mention being a fan of one or two tv shows, bands, and movies, that are usually described with the phrase Cult Favorite. Perhaps, I think, if I mention all my cult favorites, I’ll find other devotees. I add extra photos to show that I have friends and interests and am not slug-shaped.

It doesn’t work, and neither does paying two dollars to boost my profile in the search results. The stream of generic emails from scammers posing as long-distance loves continues, albeit at a greatly reduced pace since I’m no longer Fresh Meat. Even the scammers here disappoint me: On Match.com, they used pictures of handsome businessmen and majestic athletes. On OKCupid, they use pictures they seem to have copied and pasted at random – bathroom selfies and the visibly unemployed.

It gets to the point where I would happily wire them a small sum, just to indulge my fantasies, and that’s when it clicks: this is why people pay for Match and other sites. But having had no luck on Match in the past, I’m reluctant to try it again. I start working on a JDate profile, and immediately receive a stream of alerts from that site, exhorting me to check out various profiles – many of which are, of course, familiar from other sites.

One of them I’ve even met in person. I decide I’ll take it slow, and don’t pay for a subscription, in spite of messages that are supposedly piling up in my inbox, unread, behind the paywall.

While I fine-tune my JDate profile, OKCupid springs to life: Someone not far from me sends me an email, and though he’s not the handsomest man I’ve seen, he appears to have actually read my profile, which at this point is a win, in my book.

The messages slow down by the third day, so it’s easier to find the ones from actual people, and I start to recognize some familiar faces from at least a dozen profiles I encountered and discarded on Match two or more years ago.

One face I don’t recognize right away; it’s a picture I’ve never seen from a life I don’t recognize, but it strikes a nerve so I go to the profile to see other pictures, and even then I can’t place the face until I get to the picture of him with my former stepson.

The Departed is online dating.

I read the profile, and it, too, is someone I’ve never met – I notice right away that he’s checked the college graduate box. The text feels generic, like it came from an article on how to write online dating profiles; it is anything you want to read into it. Both a leader and a follower, a teacher and student. There are grains of truth, massaged into appealing characteristics, and when I read closely, I recognize the kernels of truth.

Then I remember that he will know I’ve visited his profile, and I block him from seeing mine.

Mr. Faraway has a profile, too, and it’s offered up to me as a good match: according the the algorithm, we’re 91% mathematical match. I consider, and then discard, the possibility of telling him this; he’s not likely to see the humor, or maybe the sadness, in it.

Unlike The Departed, who logs in often throughout the day, Mr. Faraway hasn’t logged in for quite some time, but we’re still Facebook friends, so I know why: He’s been tagged twice in photos of himself and a jolly-looking woman. She is the one who posts the photos, not him, but I see them, and see the comments from friends and family. Can’t wait to meet her. Love is in the air.

I want to tell him, Don’t rush. Make deliberate choices, they take time.

But I don’t. It’s not my place to say, anymore.

I know there are things I need to be flexible about when assessing prospective dates, but I know that location isn’t one of them. My OKCupid mailbox continues to fill, but only one of the messages is from someone whose stated location is roughly the same as mine: Washington State. Meeting someone in Washington could still involve seven or more hours of car time, depending on their location, but I like his picture, so I read the message.

“hello my name is Daniel,i work as a building consultancy i work for government and commissioners it nice seeing you on here what a beautiful woman to be precise i cant wait to know more about you,i will wait to read back from you……Daniel”

I wonder if he repeats his name to remind himself what he’s pretending it is today.

I’m bored already.

By the end of the first day, I’ve received 27 messages, but I’m already ignoring them and simply looking at profiles. There’s an app, so I download it to my phone and when I find myself with time to kill, I flick through the photos, left for no, right for yes.

John Lennon after a night of coding, left.

A man whose chin is hidden by a green glitter beard, left.

A shirtless guy in a sailor hat, left.

A guy with no shirt and no head on which to put a sailor hat, left.

A guy who can apparently jump parking meters in a single bound, left. No capes!

Emails continue to arrive, from men whose usernames profess their love, or their faith, or their other interests. BloodElf writes to me, as does MrNottoosmart. One correspondent is at his ropesend.  Superfood4you is either disturbingly health-conscious or edible, but I don’t reply, as we’re not a good fit either way. By the time I’ve found the messages from Coolsex-sweetsex, MrSteelShaft, and Pantylover, my inbox has become a wasteland of unread messages, mostly from now-inactive profiles.

Daniel writes again, and though the profile and picture and location have changed, the email message is identical, even the typos. I wonder how many times he cut and pastes that message a day, and what his response rate is.