I am at a house party

It is in a suburb I’ve not been before; it is open

And I’m pretty sure everyone who lives there is rich

I smoke a cigarette that I have lit with a lighter

bummed from a punk girl with a mohawk

Some guy comes up to me

He wears Dickies pants and a Trasher sweatshirt

“You’re the first girl I’ve seen smoking Vogues,” he says

like it is some sort of accomplishment

“Do you know Quentin Tarantino?”

I bet he plays the ukulele and writes songs about how sad he is

And that when his mother finds his weed, he will tell her it’s medicinal

He’s so depressed, you see

The world does not understand his unique vision

“You would like Kill Bill, it is totally feminist.”

If I do not respond, will he get the hint that I’m not going to have sex with him?

I don’t want to end up as a voicemail on his new mixtape

or have him vaguepost about me on his finsta

“What about Jean Luc Godard?”

I have seen Le Chinoise and I hated it

Also, you’re pronouncing his name wrong

He offers me a joint and when I decline

He tells me I’m so cool for going against the norm

I’m not doing it to be cool, weed just gives me anxiety

You pretentious fucker

“Sometimes I feel like the world just doesn’t appreciate real art anymore”

Like the “tastefully nude” pictures he took of his ex-girlfriend

(Hint: just because it contains a nipple doesn’t mean it’s art)

He takes a long drag and then he sighs

“Authenticity is just so hard to find these days”

I brace myself for what is yet to come

The sirens start ringing in my head

And I feel an instant headache coming up

He opens his mouth,

and there it comes:

“You’re just not like other girls, you know?”