A Martian Joins a Dating App

but it's unintentional

How old are you? The app asks in its mechanical voice. I quickly type my answer, 450, and click next.

What is your current occupation? I have to think about that one for a second. Here on Mars I’m in charge of providing food for big events, but what is the Earth word for it? I’m about to start hitting my head in order to shake the word loose when it finally comes to me: Caterer. I type it in and move on.

List three things you like. Hmm. I suppose I like watching old Earth movies, cosplaying with friends, and cooking. Next.

What three fictional characters would you be most interested in meeting in real life? Wait, what? Who puts a question like that on an Earth Registration Form? I shrug and answer it anyway: Gandalf, Jack Sparrow, and Captain Kirk.

That appears to be the last question on the form, so I click submit and wait while everything loads. It takes a solid minute to calculate, and I completely zone out in that amount of time. The technology on Mars is far superior to the technology on Earth.

You have been matched with 35 people. The mechanical voice brings me back to reality, but it’s a reality I don’t understand. I’ve never heard of anyone getting matched with people on their registration form.

A whole list of faces appears on my screen. The one at the top is of a redhead named Megan. I hesitantly click on the picture. It takes me to a screen full of answers to the questions I had just been made to answer.

I learn that Megan is 35, likes older men and outer space, and secretly plays as a wizard in DnD tournaments. 

How curious. I click away from Megan and choose another face on my screen.

This one has brown hair and seeing lenses that are too big for her face. Her name is Lindsey and she’s 24. Some of her hobbies include building miniature pirate ships and reading. Her dream job is to be an astronaut.

I can’t help but chuckle at the fact that she wants to be an astronaut. Those humans and their silly ideas about space travel. Some day they might catch up.

As I click through the other pictures, I become more and more confused. Why do I need all this information on all of these random people? I don’t think I should have access to all of this private information.

Slowly it dawns on me. Whoever runs the Earth Registration App must have missed a bug in the programming. I put my screen in the back pocket of my Earth pants, which are much more comfortable than I would have ever guessed, and head to the IT Department. Someone has to do something about this bug before it ruins the entire Earth Assimilation Program.