So, there I was, scrolling through Hinge like it was my favorite deli menu, when I matched with a guy who looked like he had just stepped off the set of a horror movie – you know, the "final girl" vibes. We exchanged a couple of witty messages, and everything seemed fine until he decided to invite me to a “special dinner.” I was intrigued, thinking maybe he was a budding chef or had a secret recipe for lasagna passed down through generations. But nope! Instead, he invited me to his apartment… on the other side of the city… at night… and promised dinner would start promptly at 7 PM. He insisted I wear something "comfortable" and suggested I wouldn’t hate the “dark ambiance.” Right. I decided to go for it – what’s the worst that could happen? Cue the horror movie music. I arrived, and the lights were off. He met me at the door holding a plate of spaghetti that looked more like a crime scene than dinner. "I’m glad you could make it," he said, as he gestured to the wall lined with framed photos of him—playing the guitar, posing with a fish, and… wait for it… standing next to a life-sized cardboard cutout of himself. He leaned in and said, "The real surprise is what's on the back of the photos." I bravely flipped one over, expecting some artsy attempt at poetry, and instead found a list of all his ex