Dating culture in the first quarter of the 21st century is more about the journey than the destination. So long, of course, as someone else is behind the wheel. Whether it’s a road trip that veers off into a chainsaw-dense no man’s land or just a demolition derby, the entertainment value increases with the chaos, the humiliation, and our own distance from their consequences. Our culture is rife with shows about catfishing, ghosting, and romantic fraud. Personal essays extol the virtues of “heterofatalism,” and screenshots of dating app chat logs are clear breaches of ambiguous courting etiquette. We consume all of these things with the glee of Sadean aristocrats.

Every generation gets the dating culture it deserves. Ours is less debauched than it is disillusioned — we let our phones match people who never get what they want with people who never know what they want. Yet lately, a fatigue seems to be setting in. The most recent season of The Bachelorette was pulled off the air because the drama promised by its titular object of affection proved far too toxic for its brand. The entire internet dined out on the romantic misadventures of Olivia Nuzzi and Lindy West, stopping just short of buying the books they were promoting in the first place. And while 90-day fiancés seem to be renewable, there were not enough buxom moms with handsome sons to fill every room in MILF Manor. Reaching the apparent nadir of this disaster voyeurism, there is logically nowhere to go but up.