I went on my first date with a guy from a dating app. I ordered everything I wanted and ate way too much. When the bill came, he suggested splitting it. I said, “No. You invited me. You pay.” He paid, but what I didn’t know was that he secretly…
added a note in his phone, right there at the table, while pretending to check a text. I notice the flicker of his screen, the way his eyes narrow ever so slightly, like he’s making a mental bookmark of this exact moment. I brush it off. Maybe he’s just weird. Or maybe I’m paranoid. Either way, I grab my to-go box, smile, and thank him for dinner like nothing’s wrong.
The next day, I get a Venmo request from him. $74.19.
No context. Just a money request with a pizza emoji. I stare at it for a long time, not sure if it’s a joke. I even message him:
“Uhh… is this supposed to be funny?”
He replies:
“Nope. You said you weren’t paying, but I don’t cover gluttony. You had THREE appetizers.”
Three? Maybe. But in my defense, they were small. And I was hungry. And he had invited me. So I respond:
“Then maybe next time, don’t invite someone to dinner if you’re keeping a calculator in your head.”
He leaves me on read.
Fine. Blocked. Done. Or so I think.
Because two days later, I get a DM from a totally different account. The profile picture is a kitten wearing sunglasses. The name is something absurd like “MrMeowster123,” and the message simply says:
“Still owe me $74.19. Don’t ghost like a thief.”
I laugh. Out loud. Then I get mad. I screenshot it, post it to my Instagram story with a poll:
“Who owes who? Girl invited to dinner vs. guy who can’t count a date as a date.”
It blows up. Friends reply. Strangers message. Someone even recognizes the guy and says, “OMG I went on a date with him too. He asked for gas money after dropping me off.”
Apparently, this is his thing. Invites girls out, then retroactively demands payment if he doesn’t feel they were “grateful enough.” One girl said he PayPal’d her a refund request for the tip she didn’t leave.
I start getting messages from women all over the city, each one telling a new variation of the same nightmare. One girl claims he created a spreadsheet of his dating expenses and categorized her under “high maintenance, low return.” Another says he rated her dessert choices in a shared Google Doc titled “Date ROI.”
I go from stunned to disgusted to… fired up.
So I make a TikTok. I tell the story, reenact the dinner moment, dramatically hold up a to-go box like it’s Exhibit A, and read his Venmo request in a posh British accent.
It hits a nerve. The video gets over 600,000 views overnight.
By the next morning, I have a dozen more stories in my inbox and a new follower: @SplitTheBillBill. It’s him. He made a public account. And he’s reposting my video with captions like:
“Proof that entitlement isn’t just a male problem.”
“Modern dating: where free food is the love language.”
He even comments:
“Just say you used me for dinner and go.”
The comment gets hundreds of replies. Some people take his side. A few say he’s just trying to make dating fair. But most? Most are horrified.
I sit there scrolling, heart pounding. It’s no longer about dinner. This guy is trying to shame women publicly for accepting his own invitations. And worse, he’s collecting data, receipts, names.
I call my best friend. “Should I delete everything?”
She says, “Hell no. Double down.”
So I do.
I invite the other women who messaged me to do a live panel with me on TikTok. We call it “Dates We Regret: A Roundtable of Red Flags.” Five of us go live. We tell our stories. We laugh. We cringe. One girl reads a poem she wrote titled ‘Receipt for My Dignity.’
It’s cathartic. It’s hilarious. It’s horrifying. It’s real.
By the end of the week, the hashtag #SplitTheBillBill is trending. A journalist reaches out and asks if I’d be willing to talk for a feature on “Weaponized Frugality in Modern Dating.” I say yes.
The article goes live. The headline reads:
“He Wants to Split the Bill, but Not the Blame.”
He responds, of course. Posts his own video, shirtless, holding a calculator, saying:
“Dating is not charity. If you eat half the table, pay half the bill.”
I don’t even reply. I don’t have to. The comments speak for themselves.
Then, something unexpected happens.
A woman named Emily DMs me. She says she used to date him. Like, actually. For a few months. She says, “He used to keep a budget folder titled ‘Romantic Overhead.’ He tracked every flower, every Uber ride, every coffee. One time I didn’t finish my smoothie and he asked if he could get a refund for it emotionally.”
I almost choke laughing.
Emily adds, “But here’s the thing. He wasn’t always like this. After his last breakup, he went full spreadsheet. I think he snapped. You should know… he applied for a patent on a dating app that matches based on ‘expense alignment.’”
I blink.
No. Way.
She sends me screenshots. He really did. The app is called Splatr—short for “Split Later.” Its tagline?
“Love is priceless. Dates are not.”
At this point, I don’t know whether to scream or launch a comedy special.
So I do the next best thing: I buy the domain SplitTheBillBill.com and post every receipt, every Venmo request, every spreadsheet sent to me anonymously. I keep names private. I make it about awareness.
It goes viral again.
But then… I get an email from a lawyer.
He’s suing me. For defamation.
My stomach drops. I re-read the email ten times. He claims I “knowingly incited targeted harassment” and “damaged his entrepreneurial reputation.”
I call my cousin, who’s a paralegal. She says, “You didn’t name him directly, right?”
“Nope.”
“And everything you posted was sent to you?”
“Yep.”
“Then let him try. He’s going to embarrass himself in court.”
Still, it’s scary. The idea of being dragged into legal drama over a dinner date feels surreal.
But then, two things happen.
First, a lawyer who saw my TikToks offers to represent me pro bono. Says he’s tired of “financial manipulation being disguised as modern masculinity.”
Second, someone sends me a link. It’s a Reddit thread.
“Men like Bill are giving all of us a bad name. Stop it.”
Even guys are turning on him now.
The lawsuit goes nowhere. His lawyer drops him when the screenshots surface showing him bragging about his “emotional reimbursement invoices.” Apparently, the term violates several platforms’ harassment guidelines.
He deletes all his accounts.
And me?
Well, I get invited to speak on a podcast. Then another. Then a YouTube channel.
The conversation expands. We start talking about financial boundaries in dating, about expectations, about consent—not just physical, but emotional and fiscal. I even get a brand partnership with a budgeting app that promotes transparent communication.
But my favorite part?
A woman DMs me and says, “I was nervous about asking my date to split the bill, but your story helped me realize it’s about mutual respect—not who owes who. We had the conversation. And it actually brought us closer.”
I smile.
Because that’s the point. It was never about free food. It was about freedom—to say yes, to say no, to eat what you want without fear of being punished later.
And if that scares guys like Bill?
Good.
Because girls like me?
We’re not splitting our dignity. Not anymore.
