I’ve never been a fan of Love Island.
I reckon I’ve never been in a hurry to watch social media influencers have 30-minute-long kissing competitions.
Especially on this show—with new episodes almost every single night, of 20-somethings with schedules more flexible than Nastia Liukin, pretending to fall in love for the cash prize at the end all the cast members, miraculously, never mention.
$100,000 prize and no one ever brings that up.
They’re allllll just there to fall in love.
But I’m on my phone too much.
And I had to find out who the fuck Huda was.
20 episodes in and a strange detour to Casa Amor later, and I’m realizing I would never survive on this fucking island.
Let’s run through some of the reasons why I’d be the first one off Love Island:
I don’t have bad tattoos
Every guy on this season of Love Island has tattoos that would make normal, sane, humble humans keep a long-sleeved shirt on at all times.
When is love island going to do the tattoo removal challenge ??? pic.twitter.com/ptzXnqweBs
— caroline baniewicz (@carolinebano) July 8, 2025
Amaya and Ace couldn’t even hug for the picture 😭 pic.twitter.com/mf8Yu6DbxR
— dani (@kordeilogy) June 12, 2025
An “Ape shall not kill ape” tattoo is something a 15-year-old who loved those Planet of the Apes movies would get before their parents slap the back of their heads to remind them how silly they are.
I am tattooless.
There is no seat at the Love Island fire pit for me.
I don’t have banter, mate
So many of these conversations feel like job interviews as two strangers attempt to answer vague, amorphous questions like “where do you see yourself in 5 years?” or “what type of person do you usually date?”
I have two speeds.
Dead silent or certified yapper.
You give me one (1) drink and I’m in your ear explaining why Barbara is my favorite character on Abbott Elementary or how Migos raps in a different time signature.
I’m in that Speakeasy room, spilling my drink on shorty, putting my iphone to her ear, forcing her to listen to a Quelle Chris verse, shouting “IF YOU OFF THE PIG, IS YOU OFFIN’ PIGS OR OFFERIN’ FIGS”—moments before the poor girl sits down with a producer to explain how frightened she is of me.
I need to scroll
What do these people do all day?
I can’t help but feel like I’m watching Sims do mundane activities over and over again in this surprisingly small villa until they are instructed to make out with each other again.
It’s as if they are in purgatory, forced to fall in love, watch the person they’re falling in love with make out with someone else in front of them, break up, fall in love, and repeat the process over and over—all with no activities to do besides lifting weights, swimming and staring off into the distance, slowly losing memory of what the outside world is like.
A guy like me needs a good subreddit to scroll through or an Instagram feed so I can mock people I haven’t spoken to since middle school.
I love love.
It’s beautiful and fulfilling and wonderful and all that shit. But I don’t love talking about love all day, shirtless in a windy vacation home surrounded by the same 7 people all day, accidentally walking in on people kissing or dry humping or plotting to kiss or dry hump.
I gotta play games on my phone. I will send myself home just for access to the NYT daily crossword again.
I’m ugly
My biggest obstacle is the fact that I look like a writer.
I’m not sure models in bikinis would see me, standing at a sharp 5-foot-10 with scars from when I hit my head having a seizure and think to themselves “I must bang him”.
I’m a Long Island Stop N Shop parking lot 10 but a Love Island, like, 3. I assume my breath stinks right now. I have all sorts of problems. My gray hairs are starting to really form numbers, like, they’re recruiting other hairs quickly. This is a grassroots movement only the Democratic party is capable of stomping out.
Every season starts with the boys lining up and the girls walking over to the guys they want to match with. Oftentimes, a couple of the girls pick the same guy and one of them will have to awkwardly shuffle over to whoever’s left.
I will be the whoever’s left.
No one sees me standing anywhere and thinks, “This is my potential husband”.
I imagine I give off more of an “Oh wow, he really won’t stop vaping” vibes.
Shout out to all the young sociopaths capable of being recorded 24/7 for 6 weeks of their summer, making out with each other, oftentimes mere seconds after that person literally just made out with someone else.
I wouldn’t make it a week before a producer pulled me aside and asked me, concerned, “Are you sure you want to be here?” as I am sitting on my unpacked suitcase with my head in my hands, waiting for Ariana Madix to arrive and force me to grope a random girl.
Love Island is a weird show, yo.
Thanks for reading.
Let me know if you think you could win Love Island, you liar, leave a comment below. Respond on Twitter, Facebook or Instagram. Or shoot me an email at Deadseriousmailbag@gmail.com. Let’s chat, bay-beeeee.
