In my mind, shallow people only care about appearance. All that matters to them is that they find someone who looks good standing next to them. I could care less if my hypothetical boyfriend is fat, bald, short, or all of the above.

Honestly, his face could look like it was cut in half and then glued back together by a three-year-old, and I'd still be fine as long as we had everything in common, and by "everything," I mean mutual taste in music, movies, books, and comic books. For years, I deluded myself into believing that my "It's what you like, not what you like" attitude was the antithesis of shallow. Deep for demanding someone match my definition of intellect and if they didn't have any sort of appreciation for say, a film where a drag queen eats dog shit, they were clearly not an intellectual.

By the time I began internet dating, I had accumulated a very large list of "dealbreakers"—many of which made absolutely no sense.

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If he had gel in his hair or took being a Virgo seriously, I was sure it would never work out.

Not once did I see the hypocrisy in dismissing men for such insignificant things because even when I was writing them off for aesthetic reasons, I still managed to convince myself that it wasn't about looks.

I just happened to be incredibly skilled at knowing exactly who a person was based off of an item of clothing they wore, or how they styled their hair. The author's Ok Cupid profile This has led to some disastrous dates.

You see, much like one small thing could be an immediate "no" from me, one small thing could also be an immediate "yes." If a profile listed something I found especially impressive, I was quick to convince myself this person was perfect for me, not really caring to notice any more obvious warning signs.

For instance, the guy who listed the Wipers as his favorite band also asked to move in with me on our third date.

(I later found out that it was because his roommates kicked him out due to his heroin addiction.) The guy who messaged me that he wished he could draw an image of me in style the of R.

Crumb, choking him with my thighs, ended up accusing me of giving him roofies because he was "unusually tired" on his drive home one night.

(For the record: I did not.) Worse than that one was with a guy who liked the same 70s power-pop bands I did and convinced me to take shrooms with him.

Long story short, I ended up believing that he was a literal demon.