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I have really good taste in book and movies, and then when it comes to music, I just sort of give up. When I start making a mix CD for a friend, I start off with a couple of good tracks by, say, The New Pornographers or someone — and then I start feeling an inevitable drift towards the shitty, shitty songs that I actually love. Then I start coming up with excuses in my head: “Maybe X also likes the Spice Girls,” I say to myself, knowing that this is not, in fact, the case.
I am drinking, looking around, waiting. I don’t do much approaching, rather I will perch and play scrabble on my phone – waiting for a hot, cute, average, gross, or breathing dude to chat me up. I have a few moves up my sleeve. Like asking someone to light my cigarette. Or freakishly lighting someone’s cigarette who doesn’t even know I’m standing behind them.
I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with him once we were “going out.” I had never thought that far about it and I was scared shitless. The minute I realized I had to talk to him, the exciting feeling I had went away. It was like poof, instead of turning into a pumpkin at midnight, I just turned back into a regular girl with underdeveloped hormones who loved candy and stickers, not boys.