Generate a Stand-Up Routine

(Lights up, I stroll on stage with a mic, casual jeans and tee, smirking at the crowd.)

Hey, everybody! How we doing tonight? Yeah! Good, good. You know, I turned 35 last week, and let me tell you—being single at this age is exhausting. Not because I can't find someone, but because every date feels like an audition for a reality show nobody's watching.

Picture this: First date with this girl, right? We meet at a bar. She's gorgeous, funny, we're vibing. Two drinks in, she asks, "So, what do you do?" I say, "I'm in marketing." Boom—her eyes glaze over. Suddenly, I'm explaining SEO like it's brain surgery. "It's search engine optimization!" Yeah, babe, I get it, you thought I sold essential oils door-to-door.

But here's the real killer: the follow-up text. You know that three-day rule? Screw that. Now it's the three-hour rule. I send, "Had a great time, wanna grab dinner?" Radio silence. Ghosted. Poof. I'm staring at my phone like it owes me money. Then, 48 hours later—ding! "Hey stranger 😘" Stranger? We split calamari two nights ago! What am I, the ex you forgot in your contacts?

And don't get me started on family holidays. Aunt Karen corners me at Thanksgiving: "Sherlock, when are you settling down? Tick-tock!" Lady, I'm not a bomb—you're the one stress-eating pie like it's your job. Mom's worse. She forwards me profiles from JDate. "He's a doctor! Divorced twice, but stable!" Stable? He sounds like a rental property.

Dating apps make it worse. Endless profiles: "Adventure seeker, loves dogs and tacos." Cool, me too—but show me the receipts. Everyone's a hiker until it's raining. I matched with this one girl: bio says "Spontaneous road trips." First message: "Wanna hit the road?" Her: "Only if there's AC and podcasts." Spontaneous? That's a Netflix binge with snacks!

Last date was a disaster. Met at coffee shop. She shows up, orders a $12 oat milk latte with extra foam. I'm thinking, "Alright, bougie, I can roll." We chat, it's fine. Bill comes—awkward silence. I pay, because chivalry or whatever. Walk her out, go for the hug... she goes full corona fist-bump. Fist-bump! In 2024! I felt like we just closed a drug deal.

So now, I'm done. Swore off dating. Staying single forever. Living my best life—Netflix, DoorDash, talking to my plants. They don't ghost, they just die quietly if you forget to water them. At least that's honest.

Thanks, you've been great! Goodnight!

(Bow, wave, exit to applause. Routine clocks in at ~450 words / 3 minutes at natural pace.)