I have entire mixtapes devoted to some dude I went on two dates with and who then never called me again, delighted to equate my own insignificant dilemma with the big feelings of Fiona Apple and Liz Phair. At the college bar karaoke night I’d sing a ballad—“Angel of the Morning” is a favorite—that’s meant for one oblivious patron in the crowd who would absolutely not get the subtext. I’m concocting a whole psychodrama, and he probably won’t even get the main text, too busy chatting with his friends or ordering another beer, or worse, hitting on someone else entirely. Later, in the grand
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