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.