Saturday, November 26

lies and the lying (fake) british liars who tell them

Remember how about a month ago I made out with that guy who I thought might not be British?

I was out at the same bar last night, and who do I see sitting only one booth away from where we flirted but pseudo-Brit himself. (aka, guy-who-never-called despite-us-making-out-on-the sidewalk-and-him-begging- for-my-number.)

Now, before you think I hold the longest and most petty grudges ever, you should note that until last night I couldn’t remember what he looked like. I have probably passed him on campus and downtown a dozen times and not noticed at all. And also, I didn’t care at all that he hadn’t called, because I would have screened it anyways.

My spotting of fake-Brit is only notable because of why I was able to recognize him:

He was using the same moves on the girl he was chatting up that he had used on me!!!

Such as, “Want to see me as a seven-year old?” pulls out old passport which he coincidentally carries with him at all times. “Look at how cute I was!”

And while I will admit, yes, he was a cute child, it’s a stupid trick to make girls fawn over you. As is rolling up your sleeve to explain the symbolism of the crying Virgin Mary tattoo on your arm. (It is a memory of his high school girlfriend who died in a car crash or something. Ew, weird.)

So I have decided that this is the final proof I need to confirm that he really isn’t British. Clearly he has his game down pat (as his conquest last night left with him), and he knows exactly the right things to make the girls swoon. Fake accents included.

And so clearly the only thing I could do was come home and drunk message my Australian friend. It seemed like the perfect time to become overly upset about his moving-away-from-Toronto status: “You’re hot! We were supposed to make out before you went home!” Ahh yes, a good Friday night indeed.