Let's say you're an American who is intrigued by the way people lived 400 years ago, so you fly over to Britain. You've put aside your distaste for tyrants, and find yourself somewhat enjoying their pompous medieval landscape. And you're even somewhat charmed by their obsessive yet witty inquiries about whether or not you are a subhuman gun owner. And then for some crazy reason, perhaps Stockholm syndrome, you write her a love sonnet. She denies your advances because you're not Lord Byron enough for her. Is she really just trying to tell you that you're not her type because you're not a pretentious snaggle tooth with a small penis?