I smoke. I thought he was a tough guy, so I told him that I smoke. I was hoping it would make me look a little less, small, middle class white girl. It turns out he hates smoking. As he is now my boyfriend, I have to pretend to have given it up. So I’m now in imaginary recovery from an imaginary addiction. Only I can’t wear the nicotine patches, because then I would actually get addicted, would start smoking, and would have to quit – again.
I knew what a spit roast was. When asked if I knew, I obviously didn’t, and so replied with a disdainful “of course.” Having assumed an air of superiority, I couldn’t back down. So when asked if I’d done one, I gave another dismissive “of course.” Then I went home and Googled it.
I have hipster music tastes. I don’t. I’m a Britney babe. I listen to Justin Bieber. And Pitbull. And any mainstream generic crap you can put an unce-unce-unce to. I told a guy that I did have music taste, solely because I wanted to appear hipster. But I now know that hipsters are faking their music tastes. Hipster music sounds like a police siren underwater, mixed with a rooster and a magpie making love. It’s impossible to like. They can’t like it. They’re obviously just too self conscious to admit they like Britney, so hold a ‘passion’ for Persian Folk Punk.
I speak French. I am not the first woman to find herself willing to say anything to get attention from a handsome Frenchman. Unfortunately, when you say you can speak French, they have an annoying habit of speaking to you in it. As my French ability stops at year 4, I could give him a weather report. However, describing heavy cloud cover is not the strongest of aphrodisiacs. Unless you’re British, when talking about weather is the closest we get to emotional expression.
What did I learn from this? If I’m going to lie, make sure the person doesn’t realise. Otherwise, you’re in for a night of vomit, weather talk and severe judgement. Which is pretty much every party I’ve been to in a nutshell…