And that is when it hit me: my profile was never deleted.  

My app was gone, but the photos of me, my age, and my location, were floating around in the cloud this whole time. All of my matches had already approved of my profile, weeks, maybe months ago.  

I was like one of those pregnant girls who doesn't realize that she is on MTV until a baby pops out. Except instead of a newborn, I just had thirty unrequited “heyyyys” from men in a ten mile radius.  

And the worst thing about this whole situation, was not Caspar, who asked if I would sit on his face, but the fact that my reputation was ruined: I was a long-term Tinder user. I had a dating profile, and I had it non-ironically. 

So I deleted my Tinder—for real. But I still fear that it was too late for me. Who knows how many boys and old men saw my profile for a split second before passing on to the next six foot brunette?

So I write this, not just as a justification for why I had a Tinder, or as a plea for reparations, but also to warn the populace. Don’t pretend like you are too good for Tinder. If you think you are, you probably just didn’t realize that you still have the app.  

And if you are going to download the app for investigative purposes, make sure to actually delete it.

Nicole J. Levin ’15, an FM editor, is a government concentrator in Dunster House. Her column will appear every two weeks this summer.