Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

Here is the third way we might meet, no pressure.

The day we meet we are both dating other people. I’m taking a girl I know and like well enough out to have drinks, and you are on your fifth date with your current girlfriend. There is something lacking about both our dates, nothing that we can quite put our finger on, nothing that can be pinpointed exactly. Mine is sweet and kind and cute, and yours is, you will later tell me, attractive and wealthy and generous.

But good Lord, do I get bored with my conversation partner quickly. I excuse myself to the ladies’ room, which is always a gamble on lesbian dates, because they might do that awful thing where they insist on coming with you, like we’re sorority sisters or something. Is it a coincidence that you also got up to use the restroom, or did you see me pass by your table and make a snap judgment? I’ll never know because you’ll never say.

I take my time at the bathroom sink, reapplying lip gloss, checking my phone for messages. It’s my sigh of discontent at the blank screen that draws you over. You wash your hands and say, with a little nod of your chin at my phone, “Waiting for a call?”

“I wish,” I mutter. “It would get me out of this dreadful evening.” I say this with my overdone Lady Astor accent, swishing an imaginary cigarette holder through the air. “I simply won’t make it past the third cocktail, I daresay.”

You reach for the paper towel dispenser, which is predictably empty, and I fish my handkerchief out of my purse and give it to you. You glance at the monogram and make a guess at my name. It’s a wonderful, absurd guess. I shake my head with a grin.

“But maybe I’ll change it, now that you’ve come up with it.”

You might be going in for some kind of kiss; again, one of those things I’ll never know for sure, because the door swings open and an old lady shuffles her way to a free stall. I give you a little wave goodbye and start to leave.

“Don’t forget this,” you say, holding out my damp handkerchief.

“You can keep it. I have others.” I click my tongue and reach into my bag for one of my cards. “But if you ever feel like giving it back, look me up.”

I leave the ladies’ room, resolved to make it through the evening even though I’m not on my best behavior, because I’m a gentleman and gentleman brave things like boring evenings all the time. I’m almost back to my table when my phone buzzes. I take it out and see an unknown number, and I glance up in time to see you, leaning against the wall with your phone at your ear.

I hold your gaze as I answer. “Yes?”

“I thought I’d look you up,” you say, tinny in the phone lines. “Want to go have a proper drink somewhere else?”

“That would be incredibly rude of me,” I say. “My date would be livid.”

“I’m going to tell my date I feel ill. Meet you on the corner in five.”

Well, I mean, who can say no to that? I do go back to my table, I do beg off early, I do leave enough to cover the bill, but I also get to the corner in about three point five minutes. The next day, you break things off with your girlfriend, and I smoke a cigarette and do my Astor impression for you some more.

Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

This is a day I have not been looking forward to, because this is one of those things I don’t talk about, but today, when it’s staring us in the face and becomes rather obvious, you have to deal with it whether you want to or not.

Maybe we’ve only known each other for about eight or so months at this point, Pretend Girlfriend. In that time, you’ve known me only as a plucky, positive-thinking, generally cheery sort that likes to laugh like a horse and snort like a pig. You’ve only ever seen me on the upswing, is the problem. And living together, as we now do, makes it difficult to hide.

I’m not saying I’m manic-depressive, and if I am, it is so slight I would never see a doctor for it. My aunts and cousins on both sides of my family have all been For Serious diagnosed, and I know I’m not as bad as all that. I never drink so much that I hurt someone; I never start throwing things at work; I haven’t tried to leap off any bridges. My hope is that I’m pretty normal, and that everyone has their ups and downs, their bursts of fanatic energy accompanied by periods of quiet.

But you’ve never seen my downswing. And it’s not like other people’s downswings.

It starts the same way, though: little things start to pile up, there’s an argument at work, money starts weighing heavily on my mind, my parents start giving me lip about moving back home and leaving the city, and when it all gets too much, this is what I do.

Complete system shut-down. No drinking (lest I hurt someone), no shouting (lest I start throwing things), no long walks after dinner (lest I end up on the bridge). A carefully designed program to survive this period. Nothing but quiet. I sit a lot and read, or pretend to read, and I don’t make much of an effort to respond to you when you try to ply me with conversation or food (I can’t eat lest I throw up).

Downswings usually don’t last more than a few days, a couple weeks tops. They’re annoying, this time of introspection, but I have always suffered through them because the following upswings, the highs, are so great, so productive, so filled with crackling energy that it’s worth it. But you have no way of knowing this, having never seen the cycle for yourself.

It’s not about being depressed. It’s not about being “oh, woe is me” for days at a time. It’s about being nothing, nada, zip, a complete wiped drive, a blank slate. Just for a little while. And I don’t think that’s entirely unhealthy.

“Do you want to pop in that disc from Netflix?” you ask carefully, sitting beside me on the sofa with your socked feet tucked underneath you. You’re staring at me, noticing that I haven’t turned a page in my book for over an hour.

“Sure, put it in if you’d like,” I mumble, flicking a page belatedly.

“Will you watch it?”

I hesitate, then go for broke. “No. I won’t be able to.” I look down at the hieroglyphic page of my book again. “Sorry.”

“Will you be able to eat dinner?”

A good question. “Not tonight. But maybe later.” This is how you know it’s a serious thing. I don’t ever, ever skip meals as far as you know, and I make fun of people who do, because they’re fucking missing out.

“What are you able to do?” you finally ask.

I close the book and put it aside. The effort involved in even keeping this tiny exchange going is too much. “I can sleep,” I say. “All I want to do is sleep.”

“It’s six.” You blink. “On a Friday.”

“I know, Buttercup,” which is what I call you when I need to be tender and sensitive toward you. “I know. I’m just exhausted. Will you lie down with me?”

Your presence is actually detrimental to me; I won’t be able to zone out the way I need to if you’re in bed too. When I get like this, my skin crawls when I’m near anyone, but I can’t let you know that’s what’s happening in my head. I don’t want you to get lumped into all the rest of the noisy, unwashed masses that set my teeth on edge when I’m like this. So I make this gesture, weak as it is.

You come with me to bed, even though it’s six-oh-four, and you let me surround myself with all the pillows and blankets before arranging yourself to fit in that little nest with me. I hold you like it’s not making my bones itch to do it, and I hope you don’t notice.

I’ll make it up to you on the upswing, when I’m twice the human I usually am.

Dear Pretend Readers:

A curious reader asks, “My boyfriend refuses to take ballroom dancing lessons with me. How do I convince him?”

Girl, I want you to get your boyfriend right now. Go. Grab his wrist and tug him towards the computer. I’ll wait.

He there? Heeeeeey, boyfriend! What’s up, man? Listen, I got something to share with you.

If you take your lady out ballroom dancing and she gets good at it, she will have to start wearing outfits that are roughly the size of a dishtowel, as seen below:

All you gotta do, as far as I can tell, is move your feet a little bit. Also, do you know what dancers can do with a little soap and some imagination?

When you find out, you can thank me.

Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

You knew this day was coming, so I don’t know why you act so surprised when it finally happens.

I’m not a prude, Pretend Girlfriend. I’m a Catholic and a southerner and a child of Teh Internets, all of which points to a fun-loving collector of filthy pornography. That’s just the way things are; I won’t apologize for it.

“But it’s disgusting,” you say as you continue flicking your way through the files on my Linux machine. (You have to admit that was as good a place as any to hide them.) “They’re just…gross!”

I can’t disagree with you there. All the video files, illegally downloaded and sorted by subject matter into carefully labeled folders, are absolutely revolting. One folder in particular seems to turn your stomach. You give a shriek of indignation at its little label.

“You have GOT to be joking.”

I shrug. There is no defending this.

You keep clicking. “This is just– How can you call yourself a feminist!?”

I scratch my head and sort of shuffle my shoes against the edge of the area rug.

“These women are just…this is sick!”

I wish I could say you brought this upon yourself, as the folder is clearly marked Pornography: Please Do Not Open, Pretty Please. I wish I could say you must feel attracted to this stuff on some level, as you are scanning the thumbnails at an alarming pace. I wish I could say that this is a healthy hobby in which plenty of people indulge, because this is America, and unless you want to invest in a bridle and a jackhammer (for example), you should be glad I’m indulging in it alone and not foisting it on you against your will and better, clearer judgment.

I raise a single finger in the air academically and open my mouth to say all those things I want to say. But you don’t even turn around in the kitchen chair to look at me; your hand snaps in the air, an instinctive SHUT IT gesture.

“I am going to look through all of these,” you declare. “And I am going to delete all the ones that are stupid.”

I make a proto-whine-noise. (Goodbye, sweet Helga of Austria! You of the ridiculous latex outfit and too-large coif!)

“BUT.” This is you, cutting me off. “But I will keep the ones that are okay.” You give me that funny little schoolmarm look over your shoulder. “And we can watch them together, I guess.”

I tamp down on the urge to punch the air in jubilation. “I’ll make popcorn,” I say instead, and skip to the cupboard while grinning like a loon.

“Seriously, though, a bridle?”

“Oh, darling, can’t we keep it?” I ask as I rip open the plastic wrap.

You sigh and, because I love you, you say, in a very put-upon voice, “Fine. Just the one.”

Dear Pretend Readers:

Niina with two I’s asks: “I like this one girl and don’t really know if she is a lesbian or not. Are there any signs that would tell me if she is one, because I am too shy to ask.”

Listen carefully, Niina. I’m only going to type this once.

Here is a list of each and every sign that lesbians might give to say HEY I AM A LESBIAN.

1. She has her own TV show.

Most lesbians have their own popular television shows. While these shows are diverse, a good chunk of them are feel-good, sit-down, pretty-people-talking type shows. There may also be harmless, nonviolent running gags. Muppets often show up unexpectedly.

When Ellen (pictured above…not sure which one is which, though) came out as a lesbian, many people were shocked. Those people were dumb and did not realize that she had her own television show, and therefore was pretty much a certified lesbian from the moment she hit the airwaves.

2. She spells her name in lowercase.

Almost all lesbians spell their names without proper capitalization. kd lang (pictured above as a person, not the piece of furniture) is one example of this. The other most famous tiny-lettered lesbian is e.e. cummings.

3. She is married to the President of the United States.

All First Ladies are lesbians, with one or two notable exceptions. The reasons for this are clear: ain’t no breeder getting the New Deal pushed through. We are all eagerly anticipating Michelle Obama’s debut on the lesbian stage. I have personally bought 600 bottles of Binaca in preparation for the likely event.

4. Anyone who has ever met Virginia Woolf, however briefly.

In the same vein that some people believe that certain men can “turn women straight,” Virginia Woolf was the catalyst that could turn any woman gay. She was what we in the biz call a total pussy magnet. The list is extensive and hot: Vita Sackville-West, Violet Trufesis, and pretty much every woman in 1920s Britain.

The amazing thing about Woolf’s rampant lesbianism is that all who were affected by it were then able to pass it along to others. Some theorize that it is only a matter of time before Woolf’s incredible sexiness transforms all the world’s women into lesbians, with conservative estimates putting the final date somewhere around 2012.

5. She displays above-average athleticism.

It’s a sad fact of nature that heterosexual women don’t have much time to be awesome, what with all their non-adopted babies and straight relationship phone tag. Lesbians, on the other hand, are naturally cultivated to be better at everything, sports especially.

If you’re unsure whether a woman is good at sports or not, a good test is to throw a ball at her face as hard as you can. A true lesbian will catch it without a problem, much like Huck Finn catches the ball of yarn with his knees even in drag. A straight woman will suffer a broken nose. Foolproof.

I hope this helps you identify lesbians more easily, Pretend Readers!

Dear Pretend Readers:

One of your ilk asks: “This isn’t a relationship question, but since you’re a New Yorker now, can you tell me what I should do on my upcoming NYC trip?”

Reader, you were correct not to trust The Google or some tawdry guidebook on this subject. As a one-year resident of New York, I now know everything there is to do in the city. (We call it the city.)

The first thing you need to do when you get to the city is get a map. This is so important! Without a map, you might get lost. And asking for directions is dangerous; you might get stabbed. So be smart and pick up a map that you must unfold to its handy 100 ft x 100 ft size. Don’t worry, no one will think less of you for being proactive and staring at a king-bed-sized piece of paper in the middle of the sidewalk!

Oh, that’s another thing: Please, please feel free to stop walking suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk. Or walk as slowly as you can. New York is chock full of sidewalks, and it would be a shame to not put them to good use, right? Also, it’s better than walking in the street; that might get you stabbed.

Now that you have a map and a way to get around town, you’ll need to go somewhere! Can I recommend Central Park? It’s got squirrels! Real live squirrels! Doing things! Trust me, you’ll want to bring your camera. After you’re finished taking photos of common animals, you’ll want to walk around (slowly, of course, like, at least half normal speed) and loudly proclaim the differences between New York and where ever you’re from. Feel free to point out local culture like homosexual couples holding hands, older couples with young children, and people dressed in crazy fashions. These are the things you’ve come to see! Be sure to give them to honor of some finger-pointing at the very least.

After the park, you should take the subway downtown to see the Statue of Liberty. Don’t forget to block the subway doors and hold them open at every station so you can poke your head out and read the plaque. How else will you know where you are? Once you get to the tip of Manhattan’s dick, you’ll be able to look out over the water to see Lady Liberty, splendid in the summer sunlight. Please declare that she looks bigger in movies and then walk away with a scoff. If you’re lucky, you might see someone get stabbed in Battery Park, so the trip down there won’t have been for nothing.

Now it’s time for Chinatown. Oh wow, you’re in for a treat. Real live Chinese food, served by ethnic people! You might say you want to try some serious Chinese cooking, but if the dead ducks in the windows make you cry, you’ll probably end up at the Popeye’s on Chrystie. An authentic experience! Be sure to buy some knock-off sunglasses while you’re there. Ahhhhh, culture.

Now quick, before it gets dark, you have to get pictures in front of every single landmark in New York. That means statues of people you don’t recognize, bridges you don’t know the names of, the Letterman facade, the Daily Show facade, the Colbert Report facade, Radio City’s facade, and pretty much every marble building facade that features columns. You can look up what the heck they are later when you get home. No worries! Now go to Times Square. NO IDEA what you should be doing there; most people just seem to clog the sidewalks and stare up a lot. Maybe you should give that a try? Take lots of pictures of advertisements and flashing lights. That’s something you won’t see at home, unless you visit a movie theatre or any other public space.

And finally, if you’re not tuckered out from taking the subway and unfolding your map, you should go to the Earth Room. Best kept secret in the city. It’s a room full of dirt! How crazy is that.

After that, it’ll probably be nighttime. You should get back to your place of lodging, I guess. I mean, after dark, New York’s kind of a shit town. Really doesn’t have much going on. Big bummer, actually. We’ve been working on it. I dunno, maybe someday we’ll have a roller rink or something.

I hope you enjoy your awesome stay in the Big Apple, Pretend Reader! If someone tries to stab you, you can name drop me and they’ll leave you alone. I got your back. Cheers!

Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

This day may seem unfair to you. Why can’t it be the day that I cheated on you, you might wonder. How can I be so sure that it will be you who strays, if one of us were to stray at all?

It’s a feeling I get, Pretend Girlfriend. I certainly have never cheated, and as far as I know I’ve never been cheated on, but something about you brings out the best and the worst in me, and this is one of those things that I’m sure will do one or the other. And so, eventually, you must do it.

How will I react, when you finally tell me in tears what you did? (It will be you who breaks down and tells me; I am not clever enough to figure these things out on my own, and I am not possessive enough to snoop through your text messages, and I am not the sort of person who walks into rooms where dramatic things are going on.)

I guess I’ll want to know who it was first. Is it one of our friends? Is it some stranger to me, a coworker or someone you know from church? Is it a stranger to you? Were you drinking? Does it matter?

When you tell me who it was, the importance of the other party’s identity fades in my mind. Now I must know what you did. Did you sleep with her? In what way? In which of the myriad ways?

Was it something that technically may not be considered sex? Did you keep all your clothes on or something? Will it only make me more angry to hear you say that?

Now the details of what you’ve done start to stutter in importance. I’ve gotten past the fact-collecting mission of this conversation; I don’t want to know any more. I want to smash things. We don’t have anything that’s both breakable and expensive. That’s frustrating.

When I was a kid, Pretend Girlfriend, I took my frustration out on my parents’ old wine glasses. You remember me telling you this; I would collect all their mismatched stemware, a goblet without a mate, a cordial glass with a chip in it, a pair of flutes that no one ever used, and I would carry them behind the house. Each one had to be carefully weighed in my hand; the lighter the glass, the more impact I figured it needed to make the paper-thin crystal shatter with the same kind of bang that the thicker glass did. I lived for that bang and that perfect moment of powdered shards held in a bubble against the stucco wall, their final Wile E. Coyote moment before they fell onto the brown grass below.

You tearfully go to the kitchen cabinet and collect all the cheap Ikea stemware that we bought together to entertain at the apartment. You lay all the glasses on their sides on a serving tray and bring them to me, still sitting on the couch, vibrating with anger.

Where the fuck am I going to throw these? I ask. We don’t have a backyard, and I’m not breaking glass on the stoop. You’re such a fucking idiot sometimes, I say, and I’m not talking about the glass.

You finally say you’re sorry. You’re sorry it ever happened. If you could go back in time, this would be the one thing you tried to fix. You wouldn’t even try to kill Hitler.

I don’t take the joke well. I take the tray from you. I go into our bathroom and lock the door. I pull back the plastic patterned shower curtain and pick up one of the four red wine glasses. I don’t even drink red wine because it gives me a headache. This entire set is just for you and the guests. Maybe one of the guests you slept with.

I have never even considered being with someone else after we started dating. We joke that it’s almost like monogamy has given me blinders; I don’t seem to notice attractive people on the subway anymore; you have to draw my attention to the fact that someone is flirting with me, when someone is flirting with me.

The red wine glass is nicely thick. I stand as far back as I can against the door and throw it as hard as I can. It smashes against the far tile, a tiny sliver flying wild and nicking me on the cheek, but I don’t notice. I pick up the second glass.

A beautiful woman asked for my phone number just the other month at a cocktail party. I had demurred in what I’d hoped was a charming way, and then came home to tell you all about it. You’re such a cunt, and I am such a loser. The second glass explodes better than the first.

I heft the third in my hand and hear you knocking on the other side of the door, right behind my head. Are you okay, you ask. Am I okay? Bang. I tell you to ask me after one more glass.

This is the last glass that I’ve allotted myself. No way am I destroying the white wine glasses or the flutes, so I want this last one to really count. The pieces of the first three glasses are scattered around the bathroom. Most of the shards have landed safely in the tub, but here and there: a thick base rolled under the toilet, a jagged triangle that made its way into the sink, a half-moon lip that’s nestled against my bare foot.

I notice then that, thus far, you have not told me you still love me and want to make things right. You’re silent on the other side of the door. I’m silent. The last glass falls from my numb hand and cracks in a disappointingly quiet way on the floor.

Tonight, I’ll leave all the broken glass in the bathroom. I’ll grab a bag and go sleep on someone’s couch instead of speaking to you. The next day I will go to California, which is where I go when I don’t want to speak to someone on the east coast. If I could afford it, it would be Tokyo. Jakarta. Tibet. But North Hollywood will serve. I will sleep on an old friend’s floor and drink his microbrews and go over every detail of failure between us. I will take your phone calls in a sullen way, and we will talk in circles.

In a week I’ll come back to the apartment, and we’ll be back together. Because you’ll have said all the right things, all the things I wanted to hear you say before I broke our glasses. You’ll have used your argument of honesty and promises to sway me. And most of all, you will have preyed on my selfish fears: getting old, dying alone, having nothing to do on a Thursday night.

We will tell each other as we get older that this experience made us stronger, that it was one of those tests that all relationships must go through, and boy did we pass. We’ll pat ourselves on the back and buy lots of white wine. But after this, you’re forever afraid to serve red wine in our house, and I’m forever certain in the back of my mind that you’re fucking other people. We are worse for this, but can’t admit it, and so we don’t.

Dear Pretend Readers:

One of the more eagle-eyed among you has noticed that, oftentimes, my advice to readers is to just try being a lesbian and see if that helps. S/he asks:

What kind of advice would you give to all the straight females that have decided to become lesbians after reading Dear Pretend Girlfriend? Where should one begin and how could one prevent making an ass out of oneself?

Pretend Readers, this is an excellent question and I am shocked I have not spoken on this subject before now. I estimate that, at the time of this posting, the DPG blog has succeeded in converting at least twelve thousand women to lesbianism, and perhaps even more men! But since this question is all about the ladies, why don’t I talk to them for now?

To all you fine women who have decided to give it a fair try, welcome! You have made the correct choice. Believe me when I say that, if you weren’t supposed to be a lesbian, then this little blog probably wouldn’t have had such a marked effect on you. It’s fate, pure and simple. You were meant for the wrong side of the sexual tracks.

Don’t worry, though! Lesbianism isn’t as tawdry and classless as 1950s escapist literature would have you believe. These days, it’s a perfectly respectable position, provided you have all the correct tools at your disposal.

First of all, you will need a copy of the North American Chapter of the International Commission on Lady-Loving for Ladies (6th edition), unless, of course, you live outside of the States or Canada, in which case you’ll need the manual that corresponds to your geographical location. Don’t be discouraged by the heft of this tome; no one actually reads the whole thing. It’s like any other holy text in that way. Just skim the first parts about blood-letting and the uniform and you should be ready to get started.

Secondly, you will need to come out to your loved ones. I would advocate saving this once in a lifetime opportunity to stop a dinner conversation for good until such times as it might be deployed to the best advantage. I, for example, waited for an intervention due to my acute alcoholism to let loose. Trust me, once everyone knows what sort of pornography you watch, the number of cocktails you have in the afternoons seems to fade into obscurity.

Thirdly, pornography. To be a Real and Actual Lesbian, you must start watching lesbian pornography for tips on how to please your partners. Take careful notice of the lesbians’ big hairstyles, acrylic nails, body hair maintenance, and tan lines. You should try your best to mimic them properly or else no one is going to take you seriously as a homosexual woman.

And finally, you must find a partner with whom to be a lesbian. That is to say, one cannot just SAY she’s a lesbian; she’s got to put her money where her mouth is, ante up, belly up to the bar, and other ways of saying lewd things in an accepted manner. Can someone be called a lumberjack if he’s never felled a tree? No, of course not. And before you cry foul, this applies to straight people as well. All virgins, until otherwise proven, are probably gay.

I hope that helps, you vast pools of Pretend Readers who are ready to take the plunge!

Dear Pretend Girlfriend:

Today is the day that we are going on an exciting excursion where we will need to impress people. Probably attending our first dinner party with real linen napkins and everything, which is so freaking adult we could cry.

“The little forks are for salad, right?” you ask me while putting on mascara in front of the bathroom mirror.

I am trying to work product into my hair, standing on tip-toe behind you to grab a corner of the mirror for myself. “Yes, unless we’re having lobster. Then the littlest fork might be for knuckle meat.”

If you’re a vegan, you’ll make a face. I run into the bedroom to pull on my clothes, my best pinstripes and a shirt that screams FANCY DINNER PARTY GUEST TRYING TO PLAY IT COOL. It’s got this ruffle thing. It’s nice.

“We’re going to be late,” I call to you as I slap on my wristwatch and earrings. “You almost ready, darling?” Our running joke for the week has been that dinner party guests call each other “darling.”

You come into the room taking off your robe. You’re already dressed in your best pinstripes and a ruffley blouse, a shade away from mine. We look at each other, disgusted.

This is something that old, boring couples do: dress alike. We had always sworn this would never happen to us. We’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that our wardrobes remain separate and different. We should not even own outfits so similar. One of us has done wrong, that much is for certain.

“When did you get that?” you accuse.

“I’ve always had this,” I snap. “When did YOU get–?”

We bicker because neither one of us will admit we bought nearly the exact same top for this occasion. We don’t want to let each other know we cared so much, in a non-ironic way. We don’t want to admit that we’re not distinct people with our own tastes and ideas, which we’re not, not any more. We are stubborn bitches who are always late to dinner parties. We are busy ransacking the closet for new options, and playing endless rounds of paper, rock, scissors to see who will be allowed to wear the royal blue ruffle top.

We both end up wearing shift dresses. Mine is black, yours is blue.

Dear Pretend Readers:

A sharp-minded one among you recently asked me, “How does one deal with culture clashes within a relationship? Of course, there are many, many possible permutations here, but I’m thinking specifically of British/American couples.”

Pretend Readers, this is a fantastic question because the chances of Pretend Girlfriend being British are very high.

As with most liberal elitist Americans, I think the UK is some kind of holy land of intellectual discourse, a place where everyone smokes a pipe and sips tea and then eats a curry and possibly steals a policeman’s helmet. In a nutshell, everything is better in Britain because Britain is far away from here.

But in reality, your British/American relationship will not last and let me tell you why.

In England, this is considered the height of humor. Or humour.

Whereas this is the pinnacle of American comedy.

Does not compute, guys. It’s just not going to work out. There’s only one thing for it: you must pretend to be of the exact same cultural background as your significant other.

For example, when I finally meet British!Pretend Girlfriend, as soon as we’re introduced and I hear her incredible giggle accompanied by a “Bollocks!”, I will start speaking in the worst British accent ever. And I will continue speaking in that accent until the day one of us dies. Because otherwise, she’s always going to be thinking that I am, in some small way, responsible for Jackass.