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There’s this dating app called Raya. You’ve heard of it, right? Nylon magazine calls it the “so-called Tinder for Illuminati.” Essentially it’s a dating app for the rich, famous, insanely hot, and aggressively well connected. Lucky for those people, such qualifications are generally not mutually exclusive.
The catch around the whole thing is that you have to have a cool profession, 5,000 or more Instagram followers, and be recommended from someone on the app. It’s incredibly exclusive and will kick you off if you do so much as take a screenshot of a potential match. I can’t imagine what happens if you get fat.
That being said, considering people like Cara Delevigne, Avicii, and John Mayer are reportedly users, I understand the necessity to keep it #elite.
As you can expect (because we’re animalistic creatures living in an egocentric world), deeming anything exclusive means there will be thousands of laymen trying to obtain said status. Raya is no exception. Hundreds of people are denied access each day, probably because they’re disgusting ogres that will never fall in love.
Of course, because I too am a mere mortal and member of the Instagram-obsessed, approval-thirsty, fame-starved, silver-spoon-fed millennial generation, the minute I heard of Raya, I wanted in.
I wanted in on Raya bad. Like so so so bad. I wanted Raya more than I’ve wanted anything in my life. I probably would have paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to get on this app. I would have spent all my savings that I plan to use to buy a house (insert bad Avocado toast joke here) on Raya membership.
Then one day, just as I was figuring how much I could get for a kidney on the black market, I realized that maybe I could get on the old-fashioned way. Maybe, with a lot of hard work and determination, I could actually be one of those superior human beings accepted on this app. I am made of part grind, part strategic manipulation, and part vodka. If these “Instagram models” could get on Raya so could I. If you believe you succeed, si se puede, etc. etc.
See, the human race is nothing if not our continued forward momentum. Life needs to progress in order to sustain itself. Think of Raya as just that. Our democracy might fall any moment if plebes like you and I do not constantly try to better ourselves in hopes to one day obtain the chance to date someone better than us. It’s the circle of life.
Sure, “sane people” argue that your perfect match may be out there on some godforsaken regular app like Bumble or Tinder, but why on earth would you so much as consider dating someone of such low stature. This is 2017 baby, where pretty people win and rich people get richer. Don’t settle for who you are, settle for who you probably will never be but might as well die trying to become.
In my own personal Raya themed quest for acceptance and love, I do indeed have a few more barriers to entry than say, Demi Lovato.
For starters, I’m not a celebrity, I have under 500 Instagram followers, I am a mortal 8 which translates to a model 4, and I’ve never been on a private jet. Plus, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t “raised on champagne” and the only thing I influence are the 9-year-old girls I coach in basketball. And honestly, they see right through me.
That being said, I wasn’t going to let my glaring lack of qualifications stop me, I am a millennial after all and the assumption that I am guaranteed to succeed burns deep inside me.
First, what I had to do was change my face. Even without cosmetic surgery, I was able to make some drastic changes with makeup that lengthened my morning routine from 3.8 minutes to 50 minutes. Worth it. Totally worth it.
Next, I bought all new clothes. I’m already in college debt, so what the hell ever! I opened a credit card with a cool $10,000 limit and went to town. Brands are like art, priceless (except with, you know, a very large price tag).
I’m already a member of a gym that quite literally costs more than my monthly groceries, so all I had to do was start going. I learned that if you run until you’re physically ill, you won’t want to eat anything anyways. Win!
After I conquered my physical barriers to Raya, I focused on my social inadequacies.
First, new iPhone. Home buttons are today’s scarlet letter. Next, any of my friends not in the industry (fashion or film) I simply stopped listening to. Sure, we still get dinner sometimes because #hometownsquad, but it’s easy to have like 100 best friends when you don’t have to listen to any of them.
Finally, I quit my job. I quickly realized that “Associate Consultant” in a Raya bio is the kiss of death. There are no “Associates” allowed within 1 million feet of Raya. My new title is;
“Entrepreneur/Image Curator/Lover/Self-Employed living every day with love and joy. #LiveYourDream!”
Self-employed is the new graduate degree, if you didn’t know.
Finally, after months of shaving and sculpting and sitting in dimly lit restaurants (these places must save so much on electricity!!) I was ready. I hired a professional photographer who I met in an Uber (he was my driver) and had him take a myriad of pics for my profile.
With a timid, perfectly polished finger, I loaded my profile and submitted my application. This was my moment. I was finally going to make it. “I am worth it, I am worth it, I am worth it” I repeated to myself, refreshing my email every four minutes.
Then, one fateful day just last week… DENIED.
It can’t be. I changed! I watched and learned and mimicked and did everything I hate to be someone I think I’ll love! What if, my whole life, I’m just….me?
No. No, that’s insane.
Must be a glitch. I’ll try again next month.
Once I get Twitter verified I’m sure they’ll take me. .