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For forever and ever, she claimed, she pronounced her name “Lane-uh,” explaining that her mother had been calling her both “Lee-nuh” and “Lane-uh” her entire life.After every single one of her friends and family refused to call her “Lane-uh,” I asked her brother what the deal was.
For months afterwards, my trust issues were limitless.
Lena and I headed back to my conveniently empty apartment with a bottle of wine, six-pack of PBR, and two copies of “Face/Off” and proceeded to get absolutely spooky with each other all night long.
I asked her about her life: She told me she was almost 20, went to a prestigious, Ivy League school, which we shall refer to as Shmarvard, and had just completed a month-long mission to Africa.
We decided to spend the evening together and had one of those romantic nights doing kitschy, hipster errands that every “500 Days of Summer” loving American guy dreams about doing with a pretty girl.
We learned about each other; I told her about my obsession with “Planet of The Apes,” she told me about her love of punk music.