Editor’s Note (January 2026):
This piece was written during my post-divorce dating era. I’m leaving it up because growth doesn’t happen quietly, and because clarity feels even better when you remember what you no longer tolerate.
Dating after twelve years in a relationship is… an extreme sport. Welcome to Disarray, where my love life is basically a case study. Six months divorced, and I already had enough material for a Netflix dark comedy.
The Vegas Mirage
Half Egyptian, half Italian, abs sculpted by the gods. We met at a pool party over Fourth of July weekend, all sunshine and serotonin. For nine days he made me feel like the main character until he vanished faster than my iced coffee on a summer morning.
Lesson learned: anyone can look like a plot twist. Doesn’t mean they can finish the chapter.
The Rockstar Illusion
Tattoos. Accent. Porsche. The confidence of someone who used to headline Warped Tour. College-era me would’ve fainted. Adult me took notes. Every message was a dopamine hit, followed by three to seven days of radio silence. He called me “my Christy” once, then disappeared as fast as your baby daddy.
On paper, he was everything. In reality, a textbook Hinge situationship.
The Catfish Reveal
Because of course, the internet had to add drama. One Bumble match looked suspiciously familiar. A quick reverse-image search revealed he’d borrowed photos from an actual influencer in Greece. Blue check and all. I knew it was too good to be true. Shame on me for believing it.
Sir, if you’re going to catfish, at least don’t use someone famous enough to appear in Google Images.
The Liar
Tinder said 48. Hinge said 49. Real life said… 52. When I asked why, he gave a weird reason, “Women my age don’t do well on the apps.” Why you comparing yourself to women? Dumb.
If you can own and run a restaurant, you can run an honest profile, my guy.
The Hard Truth
I came into this new chapter saying, “I’m catching flights, not feelings.” Yet six months later, I was dodging fakes, flirts, and filtered fantasies.
But here’s what’s different now: I see it. I clock the red flags. I laugh instead of spiral. At the end of the day, I’d rather have peace of mind than a pretty lie. Better yet, I’d rather be single and drama-free than deal with toxic drama. In my mom’s wise words, “When it stops being fun, what’s the point?” – Richie Pontillas Buena
Welcome to Disarray, where chaos becomes comedy, and the stories always come with receipts.
About the Author
Christy started Disarray because she missed writing on her own terms, and she’s been spilling stories ever since. With a B.A. in Journalism from California State University, Northridge (CSUN), she covers everything from conventions and concerts to fashion, food, and nightlife.
As founder and editor-in-chief, Christy runs the show from assigning writers and wrangling publicists to shaping the voice of Disarray.
📩 Questions, collabs, or interview requests? Email Christy@disarraymagazine.com
📲 Follow the chaos on Instagram and TikTok
✈️ For travel stories, visit ChristyWanders.com
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