You know when you leave a conversation that you wish had ended with, “Well the up side is, an ever-increasing hostility towards women in my industry hasn’t left me with an inferiority complex so pervasive it propelled me to become an administrative assistant at an auto body shop so I don’t have to explain to anyone why my hoop dreams to be a writer didn’t pan out.”

And then you revise to, “Well I can’t say I subscribe to your particular retro-bohemian framework for defining yourself as if the 70’s didn’t happen, but I am a fan of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

And then to, “I don’t know about my career being the easiest or least culturally significant in the entire world, but then again, I didn’t study journalism at Oberlin.”

But what you actually say is, “I don’t know, I’m not actually a writer so.”