Dating in 2025 is tough enough, but trying to navigate it within the limited dating pool at university makes it feel even more brutal.
The goal? To determine whether AI could succeed where my own sparkling personality had apparently failed. I wasn’t aiming for love exactly, simply a date. A vague affirmation that I am, in fact, still a desirable entity in the hellscape that is the 2025 dating economy.
This was not an easy decision. As someone who has avoided the horrors of online dating with admirable dedication, stepping into this digital meat market felt like a moral and emotional compromise. But I did it.
I curated a polished version of Ailsa, who is both devastatingly beautiful and equally blasé, and handed over responsibility of conversation (flirting, jokes, and everything else) to ChatGPT.
Unfortunately, Hinge is where hope goes to get waterboarded.
Let’s talk men. Or rather, let’s talk about the unspeakable category of beasts who have evidently just emerged from Bristol’s least-eligible bachelor competition. Their relationship goals? “Something casual but meaningful but I’m not really looking but I am open to the possibility of maybe one day being less emotionally constipated.”
Also disturbingly common were the boys who’d attached images of Matt Hancock playing tonsil tennis with an aide under the “this could be us” prompt.
Among these beasts was a familiar horror: The boy who torpedoed my mental health in February, who now spends his typical Sunday “regretting Saturday” apparently. Poetic. The algorithm is evil, and it knows what it’s doing.
But I powered on, because my biggest dream in life is to one day tell my children that their father and I locked eyes through the warm glow of our phone screens and exchanged three tepid messages before having an awkward first date at the pub. Ah, love at first swipe.
To avoid defamation, I’ve named each of my suitors after a character from Trainspotting, a nod to my Scottish roots and the emotional degradation of online dating.
First up: Sick Boy.
A familiar face as I later realised I’d seen him at the gym, a gym I will literally never be seen in again. ChatGPT crafted a polite, if overly formal, reply to his opener, which read like a disciplinary email from HR.
Tragically, Sick Boy did not appear to be the type to appreciate the HR irony. Either he didn’t get the joke, or he thinks I’m a beast. Either way, he vanished. Ghosted faster than you can say “algorithmic matchmaking”.
I’m not quite sure ChatGPT has fully grasped where the line between “quirky and fun” and “utterly insufferable” lies. I mentioned in a prompt that I was interested in journalism, so when a boy I’ll call Spud messaged “Would you like to interview me?” ChatGPT gave me a range of answers. I admire the commitment. I fear the tone.
- Witty and playful: ““Only if you’re prepared to be quoted wildly out of context in my exposé on modern delusion.” (Reasonable. I sound like a fun sociopath.)
- Cool and dry: “Depends—are you prepared to have every answer psychoanalysed for content?” (Very sexy.)
- Dark academica flirt: “Only if you’re ready to be immortalised as a cautionary tale in the final chapter.” (Alright Donna Tartt take a lap.)
- Femme fatale with a fountain pen: “Of course. But understand: once you become a character, you lose the right to object to your narrative arc.” (Pardon me, femme fatale with a fountain pen? What is happening. Do we think the “for you” Spotify playlist names and ChatGPT are fuelled by the same entity?)
Okay ChatGPT, relax. This isn’t The Bell Jar and you’re not Sylvia Plath. I was hoping for some flirty banter, not to open with an indictment of the human condition. But in the end, I settled for witty and playful.
Being an art history student, I’d listed “medieval altarpieces” under “simple pleasures“, (I know, I know, I’m just so cultured yet equally humorous and quirky). A boy rightly pointed out that this was quite a niche simple pleasure. ChatGPT coughed up the following responses:
- Playful and confident: Niche? Maybe. But nothing beats gold leaf and a dramatic martyrdom scene to unwind after a long day. (….what?)
- Witty and self-deprecating: I know, I’m basically one Gregorian chant away from being unbearable at dinner parties. (I can’t do this anymore.)
- Flirty and curious: I like my pleasures niche and my conversations unpredictable. What’s yours? (Just smother me with my cat and be done with it please.)
And the worst of all
- Sincere with a wink: It’s niche, but beautiful! There’s something oddly calming about staring at a panel of saints being dramatically martyred. (…..with a wink?)
In the end, I was forced to opt for the “slightly chaotic art girl” prompt:
“What can I say, nothing gets me going like tempera on wood and a well-executed crucifixion.”
WHAT DO YOU MEAN “gets me going”? Why does my AI sound like it’s been possessed by the ghost of a very intense art historian? I’m 90 percent sure ChatGPT is just Harriet from Wild Child sat behind a computer in a basement in Lemington Spa somewhere. Safe to say I was unmatched.
But miraculously, by this time, Spud had responded: “Sounds like a fair deal, I also like your bob.”
Not awful, right? I replied: “Flattered by the bob appreciation. But be warned my exposé pulls no punches. Hope you’re comfortable being a case study” (Okay, ChatGPT, not bad..)
He was clearly a humble sport: “I am ready, so when shall we schedule the interview for?”
Hold up. Am I getting somewhere here? Was that an invitation? (I had to tell ChatGPT to inform these men that I wasn’t in Bristol at the moment).
With help from ChatGPT, I replied: “Sadly, the interviewer is currently on an assignment out of town. But if you’re still willing to risk defamation at a later date, I can make room in the schedule.”
I wait in anticipation for a response. It arrives.
“That’s a real shame, but I am happy if you want to schedule something through my assistant on instagram @spud”
Bravo Spud. Well played.
And then, by some act of divine intervention, a text from a boy I actually sent a like to. Huzzah, maybe God is real. ChatGPT, don’t let me down now. The AI fuelled conversation went like this: “Hey Ailsa, how silly is your Glasgow accent?” Is he also using ChatGPT?
“Somewhere between charming and ‘needs translation’“ (Vomited in my mouth and had full body shivers sending this. Also my accent is weak at best).
He replied: “Oh, can’t promise I won’t laugh at you, tell me one of your positive attributes to make up for this.” Ok, maybe not.
AI insisted I respond: “Balance is key: Ridiculous accent, solid personality.” Omg who am I? A millennial podcast host with a side hustle in ceramic earrings?
I do love a man with a sense of humour, so luckily he replied: “See I’m the opposite, I have a very charming and horrifically English accent but I’m a fundamentally awful person.”
And then, in some act of divine intervention: “We should grab a coffee together on Monday.”
Ding ding ding! Just like that, a date proposal. Well, that was fairly easy I must say. Was this what I’d been doing wrong all along, trying to be a charming and approachable human lady to men I met in real life when I could’ve just outsourced the flirting to a bot on an online platform? It felt off. Not quite cheating, but definitely morally grey.
I wonder how much I have ChatGPT to thank or if it was my incredible face card (joke). Alas, I won’t be going on this date because I’m scared of boys and intimacy. We have the aforementioned “regretting Saturday” boy to thank for that, sorry lads.
Yet, the facts remain, ChatGPT has been more successful in 48 hours in securing me a date than I have been in the past four months. Take from that what you will.
And thus, with(out) a kiss, I delete hinge forever! Mainly because the thought of boys sitting in their man caves hitting X on my Hinge profile is nothing short of traumatising.
But if anyone knows a single, attractive, emotionally intelligent man with a vague willingness to commit by 2027, please forward my LinkedIn.
