I am at a house party<\/p>\n
It is in a suburb I’ve not been before; it is open<\/p>\n
And I’m pretty sure everyone who lives there is rich<\/p>\n
I smoke a cigarette that I have lit with a lighter<\/p>\n
bummed from a punk girl with a mohawk<\/p>\n
Some guy comes up to me<\/p>\n
He wears Dickies pants and a Trasher sweatshirt<\/p>\n
“You’re the first girl I’ve seen smoking Vogues,” he says<\/p>\n
like it is some sort of accomplishment<\/p>\n
“Do you know Quentin Tarantino?”<\/p>\n
I bet he plays the ukulele and writes songs about how sad he is<\/p>\n
And that when his mother finds his weed, he will tell her it’s medicinal<\/p>\n
He’s so depressed, you see<\/p>\n
The world does not understand his unique vision<\/p>\n
“You would like Kill Bill, it is totally feminist.”<\/p>\n
If I do not respond, will he get the hint that I’m not going to have sex with him?<\/p>\n
I don’t want to end up as a voicemail on his new mixtape<\/p>\n
or have him vaguepost about me on his finsta<\/p>\n
“What about Jean Luc Godard?”<\/p>\n
I have seen Le Chinoise and I hated it<\/p>\n
Also, you’re pronouncing his name wrong<\/p>\n
He offers me a joint and when I decline<\/p>\n
He tells me I’m so cool for going against the norm<\/p>\n
I’m not doing it to be cool, weed just gives me anxiety<\/p>\n
You pretentious fucker<\/p>\n
“Sometimes I feel like the world just doesn’t appreciate real art anymore”<\/p>\n
Like the “tastefully nude” pictures he took of his ex-girlfriend<\/p>\n
(Hint: just because it contains a nipple doesn’t mean it’s art)<\/p>\n
He takes a long drag and then he sighs<\/p>\n
“Authenticity is just so hard to find these days”<\/p>\n
I brace myself for what is yet to come<\/p>\n
The sirens start ringing in my head<\/p>\n
And I feel an instant headache coming up<\/p>\n
He opens his mouth,<\/p>\n
and there it comes:<\/p>\n
“You’re just not like other girls, you know?”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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