I clicked into a written board by mistake, from a link somebody had sent me for an entirely different reason, and read adverts for a whole evening. Then I answered one, badly, at two in the morning. She wrote back a paragraph asking me three questions about my own week, and I sat looking at it for a long time, because in four years of being dealt people nobody had ever asked me anything at all.
Forty one, Manhattan, still working it out, four years on the sorting products and one conversation that went anywhere.
Nothing came of it and nothing was meant to. What it showed me is that the format decides the conversation. On a product that hands you faces the opening move is a verdict, and on a board the opening move is a question, and those two habits produce completely different people out of exactly the same population.
So I am here writing rather than scrolling. What I want I can still only describe in fragments: to be trusted with something specific, to have a routine imposed on me, to be told clearly when I have got it wrong.
Not looking for anybody who wants a summary of me in three lines. Not looking to be sorted into a type in the first exchange. And not looking for somebody who finds the not knowing charming, because I have been on the other side of that and it turns patronising by about week three.