Previously in this series: How to tell if you’re in a Thomas Hardy novel.

You hate Katharine Hepburn, but the story of how much you hate her has rather outgrown the reality of your original dislike. It’s a great zinger, though.

You deliver a cruel pun to someone you barely know while wearing a fur coat.

You are at a party where you hate everyone in attendance. You are having a marvelous time.

People compare you to something Oscar Wilde said once in a vague and general sense.

A man who does not love you does not call you.

You have a complicated relationship with your own Jewishness that is best left unexplored.

Your laugh sounds like a suicide attempt.

Someone hurt you once, and it was the most vicious and heartbreaking thing in the world. You’re hurting someone right now, and it’s wonderful.

You cannot keep yourself from marrying closeted homosexual men. You keep meaning to write a note to remind yourself to stop, but you never do.

You’re funny, but not ha-ha funny, more like an acerbic and ironic take on the human condition funny.

You know, the kind of funny where people don’t really want to be around you.

The only reason you’re not pouring yourself a Scotch right now is because you’re finishing a martini.

The editors at Vanity Fair dine out on your name for decades after you have died.

You’re no fun at all, but at least you know how to have a good time.