TL;DR: 34, male, Tallinn, born and raised here. Looking for a partner, roughly 26 to 35, though where you are in life matters more. Russian is my native language, English and Estonian are fluent, though my written Estonian has gone rusty. Honestly, English is the language I express myself best in. One Akita pup. Kids: leaning no. Not from indifference, and not one reason but several, all pointing the same way. It deserves a real conversation, not a paragraph here. If it's a dealbreaker, better we both know now.
Everything else doesn't compress. Sorry.
I brought three pages. Writing them took longer than I'll ever admit, but the things that matter deserve the time. I want to paint you a clear picture, because the shallow version would be a lie.
If weirdly paradoxical and awkwardly complex makes you curious and only slightly anxious, this might be for you.
Imagine taming a powerful dog that never stops pulling forward, trying to shape it into a better version of itself, while simultaneously being the same damn dog. Both coldly analytical and deeply primal at the same time. Eerily technical, but highly creative and communicative. Autistic but thriving in uncertainty. Mildly impulsive and compulsive still, but the natural aggression turned into determination and quiet confidence a long time ago.
You don't have to be a superhuman, but a good bit of depth and passion will dramatically increase the chances of us speaking the same language. Quietly introverted, helplessly geeky, awkwardly yourself? Even easier.
My geek has many faces, but tech takes the top spot. If it's somewhere in yours too, you'll recognize what comes next — the wiring, not the job. A stupidly specific opinion about something most people never think about. Comfort in the part where the thing isn't working yet. Actual pleasure at being proven wrong, after the ten seconds of not enjoying it much.
The tech itself is only part of it, though. Attention isn't a product to sell, and a human isn't a resource to extract value from. That's why my heart is in human-centric technology — interfaces built for the person using them, not for the manager watching the metrics. What we have instead is parasitic by design, and it's one of the few things in the world I truly hate.
I'm not asking you to grab a pitchfork and storm Google with me. Building the opposite is what keeps me from turning cynical: a work/life manager fitted to how a person is actually wired. For people who know what has to be done, have all the skills and the drive to do it, but still lose too much of it to noise. I'm patient zero, obviously. My cofounder is even stranger than me, which I'd assumed wasn't possible.
I don't need you to be sure it'll work. I like our odds, but a startup is a startup. What I'd struggle with is someone who couldn't see why it matters.
The thing is, I'm still that introverted and awkward kid in some sense. Except now he's building something much bigger than himself, every layer of it.
All of this, the wiring and the workload both, sometimes spills out as fluctuating energy, moodiness or inattentiveness. The wiring's share will always be there in some capacity, though I keep getting better at managing it. The startup adds the rest. Not through the hours — I work a fairly normal nine to six, plus a bit of Saturday. It's that carrying it means a dozen things pulling at once, and some evenings there's just less of me left over. That part won't last forever; the whole point of working this much now is working half of it later. But I'd rather you know about the evenings.
Sometimes I get stuck being too serious or feel like a machine. But I'm not a robot. A good book can make me cry, and a random squirrel can make my whole day. The broken parts of the world get in too, sometimes deeper than I'd like. The same rawness that makes all of this so vivid is sometimes overwhelming, so learning to actually process it became a matter of survival. Sitting with things instead of getting tangled in the roller-coaster. Asking the difficult questions and keeping the dialogue open. Therapy helped more than I expected, and I still go back when I need a perspective shift.
I'd need you emotionally grounded too, which is not a demand for stoicism — deep feeling is more than welcome. Volatility and manipulation are different beasts entirely. The nonstop roller-coaster, the push-and-pull, emotions used as ammunition: these I won't tolerate. Someone who already does her own inner work, not someone planning to start.
You won't be a pro at this, neither will I, but neither of us gets to stop trying. Not a promise, a foundation.
Just as I won't stop trying to pay the bills and change the tires on time. Though my car did once spend the entire winter under a snow mountain, so that might be too much to promise.
Complex shiny things do tend to outweigh mundane chores. Being a decent cook keeps me from starving, and a brain that demands uncluttered environments to do its sometimes questionable job keeps the place in relative order.
All my senses run a bit too hot. Light and sound I like soft or not at all: the lights in my apartment turn red in the evening, and even deep in a forest I'll still hear the highway nobody else notices. Smell and touch I can't get enough of. I smell everything: the food, the drinks, the fabric, a random plant I found on the street. At this point I might literally be a dog. And touch, in a relationship, is my first language. Hugs, closeness, contact. The warm kind of wired.
After all of that, my everyday life is surprisingly simple. Almost boringly so.
My days are very much alike. They start around eight with a long, quiet walk with my seven-month-old Akita. I've been working from home for the last seven years or so. Sometimes hyperfocus takes over and the day runs long, but it loses way more often than it used to. Keeping my phone on a short leash and cutting social media down to almost nothing was one of the best decisions.
My clock runs roughly midnight to eight. It bends for a good night out or a book that won't let go, but it always snaps back, and a surprising amount of my sanity is built on that. Ours would need to stay close. When two people's clocks drift apart, the people follow. Maybe not immediately, but guaranteed.
The gym gets me a few times a week, and I eat well. Not out of discipline, I just like feeling good. Spas and saunas are a major weakness. I'd happily live in Laulasmaa Spa for a month or two.
I vape, on and off. Alcohol is a beer on a random Thursday or a glass of wine somewhere nice. A handful of nights a year it turns into a proper night out with a proper amount of drinks, but even then I mostly stay present. Being drunk stopped being fun for me somewhere along the way.
Evenings go slowly on purpose. Something deep and slow-paced on the screen (I still miss Better Call Saul), or some good standup, occasionally on the dark side. Sometimes a console game — atmospheric, absorbing, something with a world worth staying in. A good thriller too, in doses. Every few episodes I have to go look at a tree.
An hour of fantasy in bed before I pass out is a must. I've probably read most of the canon and couldn't tell you a single title off the top of my head. The books themselves I remember, the names never. Except Rothfuss and Martin. Fuck those guys.
Then there's the stuff for when I want to know how things actually work underneath: fight analysis, geopolitics, how money really moves, how organized crime is structured. Mostly long investigative pieces. None of it adds up to a coherent person. I gave up on that some time ago.
I like being home and I've never felt bad about it. A cozy cafe, a board game evening, the occasional jazz night — I go out plenty, I just don't need much of it to feel full. A weird amount of my fulfillment comes from small scenes anyway: breakfast in a ferry cafeteria, surrounded by big serious truck drivers, not a word exchanged. That's the vibe. What I don't have is crowd energy. A table of eight in a bar can be fun but also completely draining.
The exception happens a handful of times a year: some old factory floor at 3AM. It costs me as much, but I go anyway, for a weird type of cozy that I've never found anywhere else. UK bass music — dubstep, jungle, UK garage — is my favorite thing to hear in a place like that. Sometimes fifty people, sometimes five hundred. Red-tinted glasses and earplugs on, and I'm good for hours. Nobody's talking, there's just the music. I love dancing.
And I travel whenever I can. I love the Mediterranean, especially Italy. I've been there a dozen times and I'll keep going back. Just as often it's a weekend somewhere in Estonia. Tartu, Haapsalu, Võru, Viljandi, wherever the road goes.
The best version of all of this has someone else in it. Halfway through something good on the couch, tangled into each other, one of us asleep before the end.
Probably me, sorry.
Now, one thing I know about myself well enough to call a requirement rather than a preference.
You have a life of your own. Your people, your thing, your direction, a life that runs on its own engine. Mine won't orbit yours either. On a scale where zero is two strangers sharing a lease and ten is a joint Instagram and matching outfits, I'm looking for a four, maybe five: my things, your things, and a real middle. Shared activities and plans, evenings together, a hobby or two, some common people. Your social life can be as big as you like, it just can't expect me to match it.
Fair warning: my friends will confirm I'm a famously unreliable texter, and some evenings I'm away from all digital communication on purpose. If you write here, though, you'll get an answer. Maybe not immediately, but always. Chat is honestly my worst channel — text on a screen never quite turns into a person for me. A voice already does, and in person beats everything. So expect me to suggest a call or a coffee early. You've just read my three pages. The rest works much better face to face.
What I wrote about you is a somewhat educated guess, and I'd happily be wrong about it.
So yes, I'm the dog in this story. But what are you?