One afternoon, while wearing some festive/functional lederhosen and hiking your way through a lush forest in Denmark, you encounter a strange toad monster ogre dude who leaps out from behind a bush to make your wish come true (I don't know, I'm still filling in the details here).
Ok, fine, he can't make you a rock star. But he can make you a rock star's girl. Which is better in many ways than being a rock star yourself, and you don't even have to pay/blow the strange toad monster ogre dude for the honor.
Then you find out you're Coldplay frontman Chris Martin's girl.
And there ain't enough poker faces in your arsenal to say with conviction time and again that you love your man and his music
No, seriously, Chris? OMG, Darling? You guys rocked tonight! Your new album is amaaaaazing, and honey, you sounded incrrrrrrediblllllle, and you are sooooooo hot! Seriously, the crowd went wild! God, you're amazing. You're sooooo talented and amazing, and you sooooo totally rock! I love you! Everyone loves you and your music! You're the best. You're amazing. I love you.*
...because you don't. And not only do you not love your man's music, you think it's the worst, worse than a pile of poo. And you think your now rocker-boyfriend man Chris Martin sings like a whining sack of doo and that his band sucks tremendous, big, bouncy balls. And simply hearing just a few seconds of one Coldplay song on the radio--even though it's a mind-boggling cash cow which is paying your ride through life--results in a skull-busting, emergency room-visit migraine every time.
Then what do you do?
Oh, life. How cruel and unfair it can be.
*good grief i just barfed a little burrito up there. did he notice? did you see that? i had total sweaty mouth. and the rocking that comes with the feeling that you have to puke and the dry heaving, drooling, wretching. holy crap. good god coldplay sucks so bad i want to die. seriously, somebody kill me