Point Blank: Delete, Log Off, Fuck Off
"I’ve been hurt too many times before."
Pats chest. Fuck—wrong side.
It’s 2pm on a Friday, pint number three—maybe. I’m bragging, loudly, about how I used to run riot on the apps. Plenty of Fish, Bumble, Tinder. I make it sound like I was breaking hearts for sport.
The reality? I was indulging psychopathic women with a smile for the camera.
The barmaid calls bullshit. Says I wouldn’t last five minutes now. I tell her I’d clean up. She dares me to prove it.
The app’s downloading.
I flick through the profiles.
33, good looking—right, what’s wrong with her?
44, bisexual—safe to say I’ve never had to wrestle with that one. I’ve no tits for a start.
But the most alarming? The seemingly endless supply of 38-year-old-plus women who “still want children.”
If you didn’t hold down a man to have kids by your late 30s, I hate to say it—but you’re doing it wrong.
Dating, just like betting, demands you see through the bullshit that’s right in front of your face.
Because here’s the truth: all the women on there in this age gap are broken. Same as me.
The difference is—I know my reality. They don’t.
It’s 10.30am. I’ve learnt to show up as late as possible. Not because I’m nervous—I’m not. I just can’t stomach sitting in there, surrounded by broken women bitching about their exes like the judge is their therapist.
I wait outside because I refuse to share a waiting room with that energy. I think I’m better than all of them. Maybe I’m not. But I’m not lying to myself, and that already puts me ahead.
I hear someone mutter:
“It’s a big one today.”
My solicitor shows me the two-page list. Somehow, I’ve drawn stall one. That’ll be my only win of the day.
But I know what this is now.
Whether it's swiping through broken women who still think Prince Charming’s stuck in traffic, or sitting in a hallway while they line up to tell stories that leave out the parts that don’t suit—I’m not confused.
I know who I am.
They’re still pretending.
And once you’ve got that clarity, you start to look at betting differently.
I’ve been off X about two months. What have I missed?
Absolutely nothing.
The pursuit of winners is an eternal struggle—but it’s not the struggle of a 38-year-old who can’t manage her emotions but still wants kids.
Betting is 90% in between your ears. You’ve got to want it. You’ve got to fight for it.
The answers aren’t on X. They’re not at the end of an algorithm.
Use your fucking eyes. Call bullshit on the 38-year-old who “lives for her dog” because no man could stay with her.
And call bullshit on the lads typing shite on X all day while missing everything that actually matters.
The judge calls my initials. It’s family court—names don’t matter here. Not really.
I stand up. I’d straighten my tie, but I’m not wearing one.
I’ve noticed lads in tracksuits fare better than me.
The ex thanks the judge as I storm out.
Yeah, well done—you won with a stacked deck.
Like a punter boasting they can win betting overnight with Bet365.
She has no fucking edge, bar spending my money in coffee shops, bitching about the latest man she’s ruined.
But that’s all this is now—people telling half-stories that make them feel better.
On dating apps. In court. On X.
Everyone’s the victim. Everyone’s the expert. Everyone’s performing.
And none of them are watching.
I have.
Now fuck off—and go back a winner.