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Dating in your 20s is a lot like when you have a problem with your WiFi router. You call up the AT&T customer service hotline, listen to terrible music and contemplate whether you have time for quick bathroom break before a human joins the call. When one finally does, you word-vomit a bunch of incoherent sentences in an effort to describe what you hope is a familiar problem. Your spirits rise: Eugene, your representative, tells you he’s eager to hear about your issues and would like to ask you a few more questions. You end up telling him your entire life story — vasovagal episodes and all — only to get disconnected because your stupid fat thumb hit the mute button mid-monologue. Then you have to go back and do the whole pointless exercise all over again but with a new customer service representative … only to find out he lives in Hoboken! It’s a hellish cycle.