So I matched with this guy on Hinge who seemed like he was crafted from debugged boyfriend material — adorable smile, solid job, and a love for dogs that rivaled every pet rescue volunteer in Manhattan. His profile was all about hiking, brunching, and being an overall gentleman; you know, the kind of profile that makes you wonder if it's too good to be true or if he moonlights as a reality TV producer and is just casting for a new show. We decided to meet at a cozy little wine bar in the West Village. He walked in looking exactly like his pictures, which, if you've ever dated in New York, you know is rarer than finding an empty subway car at rush hour. He was charming, funny, and somehow knew the exact fine line between complimenting me and sounding like a desperate wedding DJ. Everything seemed perfect until we got to the topic of past relationships. He casually mentioned his ex still occasionally slept on his couch because, and I quote, “she couldn't bear to leave her cactus behind.” Apparently, this cactus had its own NYC zip code and emotional gravity, pulling her back to the apartment every weekend. In an attempt to make the situation less bizarre, he assured me, “But don't worry, she stays as prickly as the cactus and just as lively.” Now, while I was tempted to get a second opinion from the succulent, I figured the desert drama was more than I was prepared to handle. As we wrapped up the date,