Books I’ve Pretended to Read on Dates (And What That Says About Me) -- A confession in footnotes and lies

There comes a moment on every first date when someone asks:

“So… what kind of books do you like?”

And every time, my brain short-circuits.

Because the truth — the real truth — is messy and weird and mostly involves obscure sardonic essays, annotated poetry collections I’ve never finished, Kurt Vonnegut, Hunter S. Thompson, and a lot of Harvard Business Review issues I pretend are for research.

But instead of telling the truth, I panic and say something like:

“Oh, you know, I love Kerouac.”

Which is a lie. A full lie. I do not love Kerouac. I love judging people who love Kerouac.

This got me thinking: over the years, I’ve curated a small but powerful canon of books I claim to love on dates — not because I love them, but because I thought they made me sound mysterious, desirable, or like the kind of woman who might own silk scarves and a dark past.

So here they are, in all their performative glory:

1. The Master and Margarita – Mikhail Bulgakov

Lie Level: Advanced. Required a Wikipedia refresher mid-date.

Why I claimed to love it: It’s Russian. It’s weird. It has a talking cat. It screams, “I’m intellectually intimidating, but in a sexy way.”

What I actually thought: This book is 60% hallucination, 30% plot confusion, and 10% Satan. And not the fun kind.

What it says about me: I’d rather be seen as esoteric and unreadable than admit I’m currently re-reading Slaughterhouse-Five for comfort.

 2. Infinite Jest – David Foster Wallace

Lie Level: High-risk. Most men haven’t read it either; they just want to quote it.

Why I claimed to love it: I thought it would create a mutual respect — a nerd standoff.

What I actually thought: I made it to page 75 and then used it to prop up my Wi-Fi router.

What it says about me: I’m capable of manipulation and pretentiousness when emotionally threatened.

3. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance – Robert M. Pirsig

Lie Level: Vintage Hipster.

Why I claimed to love it: Because he had tattoos and said things like, “I’m into consciousness expansion.” Oh, and because I’m a Buddhist. But unlike Pirsig, I’m a real Buddhist, who meditates daily and studies the sutras with hand-carved mala beads in hand.

What I actually thought: This book is 200 pages of dude-on-a-bike-having-a-crisis, which is honestly just most of my exes in memoir form.

What it says about me: I will gaslight myself into transcendence if the lighting is good and he plays vinyl.

4. Anything by Bukowski

Lie Level: Regretfully ironic.

Why I claimed to love it: Honestly, I was in a phase.

What I actually thought: Every woman who reads Bukowski ends up writing an essay about how they used to like Bukowski. This is mine.

What it says about me: I went through a period where I confused unfiltered misogyny for literary edge. I’m fine now.

5. Ulysses – James Joyce

Lie Level: Technically not a lie if you count the first 14 pages.

Why I claimed to love it: To see if my date would challenge me.

What I actually thought: Every time I open Ulysses, I black out and wake up Googling “plot explained for idiots.”

What it says about me: I want to be the kind of person who has read Ulysses. I am not that person. I am tired.

The Postscript (Because I Love a Dramatic Exit)

I used to lie about what I read because I thought it made me more lovable. But now I think the bravest thing you can do on a date is admit that your favorite book is Interbeing by Thich Nhat Hanh and that you cried in the middle of a bookstore because they took out the nonfiction section and replaced it with YA Fantasy.

So here’s to honesty. And to literary compatibility. And to never, ever pretending to like Kerouac again just because he owns a leather satchel and once used the word “existential” in a sentence about brunch.

See you in the margins,

  -- Bookstore Geek