When a boy brings you a brand new headwrap and quotes lines from The Fault in Our Stars (aka one of the greatest books that ever existed), you are probably supposed to fall in love with him.
I take this theory to a friend who smells like spiced apple pie and hugs you like you’ll never see him again. He confirms it with the tiniest hint of side-eye and a nod.
He: It means he is paying attention to the things that are important to you like good young adult literature and hair accessories. Or it could mean that he is using the ploy of charm and feigned attentiveness to try and get in your pants.
Me: This is precisely what I do not want. I hate dating. It is a minefield of potential fuckery. I don’t possess the skills required to differentiate between the bullshit and the genuine.
He: You. Unable to detect bullshit. Excuse me while I lol.
Me: Well no, you know what I mean. When it comes to dating, I feel like I am walking a very thin line between meeting someone fabulous and meeting a sociopath intent on destroying what miniscule hope in love I have left. And did you just say “lol”?
He: I understand.
Me: Tell me what I should do here.
He: You should thank him for his gift and next time he quotes from a book you love, you should reward him with some kind of sexual favour.
He: Or you know, just smile and say something noncommittal like “you liked the book too?”
Me: Hm. You know you smell like apple pie, right?
He: I have it on good authority that the ladies like a man that they could eat.
When a boy brings you a brand new headwrap and quotes from one of your favorite books, it can mean something and it can mean nothing at all. Finding out which one it is is supposed to be the fun part, right?
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Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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