I went out with a guy recently. It was one of those dates where nothing stuck out other than “I didn’t hate it” and the fact that he probably wasn’t an axe murderer. I do remember that he was wearing nail polish on one nail and was painfully boring (all cons), but he was pretty nice, hot, and I stayed at the bar a long time. So that’s something.

Like all first dates, it was still going to need a second date to confirm or deny any “you should be my boyfriend, probably” feelings. Eventually we settled on seeing each other on a Saturday for a second date, which was about a week away. The night of the actual date, however, and after not hearing from him for a few days, I got a text at 4 P.M. that just said “8/9?”

That’s it. Eight fucking nine. Like a plumber trying to see if you’ll be home so he can unclog your toilet.

Already having a low threshold for this dude, I didn’t write him back for hours, and eventually said I wasn’t sure I could make it because I wasn’t feeling well. And then it happened: He got really mad.

When I told him I wished I could have made it, he said, “You are the queen of flakes. Well, I’ve already started my night without you. Let’s try another time.”

Seeing as I have an ironclad reputation for doing literally everything I say I’m going to do, and giving ample time to let people know when I can’t do said thing, I was livid. Mainly because my tactic up until that point had been, Well, at least this is better than ghosting, a.k.a. never replying to another message again and just vanishing without a trace.

Wait, did you seriously think this was fun? I don’t think you know what fun is. Have you ever had fun?

I wanted to write him back and tell him I wouldn’t have flaked, but I didn’t enjoy how he spoke to me like he was the captain of the football team and I was the girl with a comically sized back brace. In actuality, I was just trying to find a nice way of saying, “Hey! You weren’t overtly mean to me on our first date, but also I probably could’ve taken a nap during it. Wait, did you seriously think this was fun? I don’t think you know what fun is. Have you ever had fun?”

It then occurred to me that most of the time when I’ve ghosted someone, it was because I had so many problems with them that it didn’t even make sense to go through the list. I hate the it’s-not-you-it’s-me B.S. because, let’s be honest, it’s totally them. Besides, if you don’t ghost, you basically have three options. They all suck.

You can:

Hurt their feelings by being blunt.

Lie to them and tell them something vague, which will only confuse them more.

Be super careful about how you relay the information and hope they don’t turn into a rage tornado who calls you an ugly troll-whore for no reason, even though they probably will.

I asked a few female friends, all seasoned ghosters, the reasons why they did it—and their logic often echoed mine. Jamie said she used to ghost people all the time because she hated having to list all the reasons they were not right for her. She also favored it over the prototypical “We can totally still be friends while you vainly pine after me, and I’ll allow it because, sue me, I love a good ego boost” speech, which, well, same.