No crunk, except for late-stage Kanye: While lots of girls gain exterior street cred by screen-saving their Spotify playlist when it plays Birdman, this one is secretly girly. Or she’s a Polish lingerie model.
It’s a string of indie bands: Celebrating a bunch of Arcade Fire in a row may indicate she paid savvy attention to the 2011 Grammys. OR, that she spent long hours in studio spaces during high school with other art students, revealing her own penchant and pent-up dreams for being a sketch artist, and correspondingly, her indefatigable boringness.
If She Calls Her Playlist “Sex”: She doesn’t understand Spotify’s privacy settings, AND/OR keeps a fancy white brassiere hanging in her bathroom.
If She Calls Her Playlist Something Fanciful and Covert, like “Stella’s Fancy Rainbow Shimmer Tunes”: She does understand Spotify’s privacy settings and frequently makes love without removing her pajama top.
“Call Me Maybe” is on it: You’ve bought shots for your best friend’s teenage sister, OR she’s like 40 and totally DTF.
The entire playlist is “Call Me Maybe” remixes: She is your best friend’s teenage sister, you sick goon.
She rocks Rufus Wainwright’s Version of “Hallelujah”: She won’t let you go down on her and may be “Christian.”
She rocks Jeff Buckley’s Version of “Hallelujah”: She probably got a minor in theater, slept with some guy who once almost got onto Warped Tour, throws a shaman’s tusk around her neck on Sundays, and might let you go down on her.
She rocks Leonard Cohen’s Version of “Hallelujah”: She will rob from you while you sleep. And totally let you go down on her.
Her playlist lacks Bob Dylan, the Stones, the Band, or Al Green: She probably has never gone a time in her life when going without deodorant seemed like a good idea, she loves vintage things but she doesn’t Pin them, and she has never stood in line for tickets which is good because she won’t love her record collection more than you, which is a serious concern in our post-Cusack world.
She listens to anything country: Let’s dispense with the whole “well is it OLD SCHOOL COUNTRY cuz like that could be cool” or whatever else is the other justification thing. This actually says more about you than her: you started the night debating whether you wanted the nice screen print T from Abercrombie your recently-ex-girlfriend wanted you to wear on the date before you dumped her at the county fair. Instead you go with a black button-down (untucked). Then you drank a 6-pack of Coors, walked two blocks to the nearest sports bar, hit on the blonde with the biggest tits, and then the haze of drunkness overtake. You don’t know what happened, but it’s six years later, she’s crying in the passenger seat of your pick-up, and she mentions both “our kids,” “you jerk,” and “I thought you loved me.” It’s also fairly likely that you are sleeping with the sorta-hot, just-out-of-high school hairdresser who is really into Jack White’s cover of “Love is Blindness” but who secretly makes fun of you to her friends, showing her the photos of your flaccid penis you text-messaged her last week. Or she just really likes the new, poppier Taylor Swift stuff, whatever.
Modus operandi: Lures you in with promise of $100 couch that may or may not have bed bugs.
Motive: Needs to satisfy sexual and murderous instincts built up from sitting on bed bugs couch alone watching Hoarders for the last three months.
Trademark: Portrayed as handsome go-getting blonde man in Lifetime movie.
Modus operandi: Schedules a meeting at Starbucks, and talks the whole time about how impressed he is with the way you’ve leveraged your synergy to utilize your maximum potential. When you’re checking your BlackBerry, slips cyanide into your skinny half-caf vanilla latte. When you start to have trouble breathing, he leans in close to your ear and whispers, “You’re about to be subtracted from my personal network.” Disappears into the crowd as you seize up and slump to the floor.
Motive: Blames his continuing unemployment on your failure to leave a recommendation on his profile.
Trademark: On his way out, passes by the breakfast-sandwich giveaway bowl and drops a business card that says, “MR. DEATH. Vice-President of Grim Reckoning, Hell LLC.”
Modus operandi: Stabs you repeatedly in the back, yelling with each plunge of the knife, “Reblog! Reblog! Reblog! Like! Like! Like! LIKE! LIKE!”
Motive: You downloaded and uploaded his photo of a cat in a hamster ball to your own blog instead of reblogging, and it got you featured on the Tumblr Radar.
Trademark: Takes photos of the killing and makes a GIF that he posts to fuckyeahbloodymurder.tumblr.com.
Modus operandi: Waits until you are hypnotized into a relaxed brainwave state from your favorite “chill tune,” and then says, “Have you ever wondered…if you deserve to be alive?” Then a girl and boy in windpants and sweatbands crawl out of your computer, Ring-style, and strangle you with jump ropes.
Motive: Hating on the 99% who don’t give enough of a shit about Spotify to pay for premium subscriptions and think they can get away with listening to copyrighted material for free without dealing with ads.
Trademark: After you are killed, Spotify posts to your Facebook saying you just listened to Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.”
Modus operandi: Throws a molotov cocktail through the window of your book nook.
Motive: After being rejected from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, plotted to travel the country killing every single person who gave a five-star review to Gilead.
Trademark: Dresses like Oskar Werner in Fahrenheit 451.
Modus operandi: Lures you into a backroom at Crate & Barrel to give you a sneak peek of the newest spring collection. Then they lock the door, revealing the back room is actually a dungeon. You must now Pin 4 Your Life, posting as many delicious cookie recipes as you can in five minutes. If they are not delicious or wacky enough (no savory surprises?), you get spray-painted pink and mortified into a house accessory.
Motive: Driven mad by unreasonably high bar set in life for how delicious the idea of a cookie recipe could be.
Trademark: Messy bun.
Modus operandi: Leaps out from under your kitchen table with a shotgun while you’re taking a picture of your omelet and cries, “Let me filter that for you!”
Motive: Spent two years as a political prisoner in a remote Tibetan jail where he was starved to the point of death. Was allowed to use his laptop, but the only social network that the government didn’t block was Instagram. Went insane.
Trademark: Takes a photo of your blood-spattered corpse and posts it to your Instagram account with a Kelvin filter and the tag #GPOY.
Modus operandi: Steals your address book info and then shows up at your house when you are doing one of your favorite things, like enjoying a peppermint mocha, and declares, “It’s time to freeze your moments. Prepare to be paused!” (Yeah, Path talks weird.)
Motive: Jealousy over your devotion and activity on other social networks. “Why not me!? Why not meeeee!?”
Trademark: Leaves a press release for Path’s upcoming collaboration with Nike, signed, “So ha.”
Google Plus Minus Man
Modus operandi: Kills himself.
Trademark: Leaves a suicide note on his Google Plus profile. Weeks go by before anyone realizes he’s dead.