There I was, swiping through OkCupid like a New Yorker trying to find a decent slice of pizza—equally desperate and discerning. I matched with a woman whose profile said she loved cats, Broadway shows, and deep discussions about philosophy. Perfect! I thought. We agreed to meet up at a cozy coffee shop in Greenwich Village. I walked in to see her sitting there, sipping on what looked like the most extravagant cup of caffeine I'd ever witnessed—a latte so meticulously crafted it had more foam art than the Louvre has paintings. I sat down, and after a few polite hellos, we dove into conversation. "So, do you have any cats?" I asked, opening with an easy one. "Actually," she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "I *am* a cat." I blinked, expecting a follow-up laugh or maybe a "just kidding!" But no, she proceeded to produce from her bag a pair of fuzzy cat ears which she promptly put on. The clientele around us didn't seem to notice, possibly too engrossed in their own New York eccentricities or overpriced avocado toasts. Thinking I needed to roll with this, I asked, "How's the cat life treating you?" "Oh, it's purr-fect!" she replied, making a clawing gesture with her hands. I laughed nervously, scanning my brain for the exit strategy. But she was genuinely committed to this role, and before our cappuccinos could even cool, she was telling