It's the little things that say so much...

"You don't even know what music you're going to play, do you?"
"No, I thought I'd hit shuffle on the old iPod and plug it into the stereo."
"Your iPod? Do you even realise what's on there? The music you play tonight will tell her a lot about you. Do you want to leave your character reference up to a random number generator? What if it starts playing those "teach yourself French in the car" lessons you downloaded but are yet to listen to? You'll look like a wanker."
"Maybe I'll crack out a few of my CDs. She has a picture of Peter Doherty on her desktop at work, maybe I'll play some Babyshambles."
"She'll see right through that. A) you called him 'Peter'. B) The last time you were offered speed, you turned it down on the grounds 'I've already lost too many points off my licence'. Granted, it's the only moderately "cool" CD you own, but even then it's only cool in a try-hard "look how many drugs I'm on YOU'RE NOT LOOKING!" kind of way. You'll hit play, she'll start talking about the Libertines and you'll end up looking like a retard."
"Ok, well what about something fun? I've got that old 2pac album in my room…"
"2pac? Are you serious? Remember what happened last time you listened to hip hop? 'How'm I doin? I'm ballin', biatch!' Bloody hell. Irony requires confidence. You're currently having a conversation with yourself and losing. You can't have rap, you know it just makes you all faux-cocky and you'll drop another clanger like the "I'm ballin'" atrocity you unleashed on that poor girl at The Orient."
"We could have a laugh at my Top Gun sound track? That could be a good conversation starter."
"Conversation starter? It'll start a text conversation with her friends under the table teeing up somewhere to go after she leaves your place before you can even plate-up dessert. You haven't had a girl inside these walls for eight months, and you want to point that out to her by playing the soundtrack to the most testosterone-fuelled, cock-rockin' movie ever filmed? Genius. Why don't you just run a Powerpoint of those pictures you took of yourself flexing?"
"Well… maybe something innocuous, you know? Just some background noise. I've got that Forrest Gump soundtrack…"
"How many soundtracks you planning on spinning tonight? Don't associate yourself with a slow-talkin', slow-witted non-threat. You need something that will paper over your glaring personality problems, not provide her with a cue to say: 'that's who he reminds me of.'
"Maybe I could play the radio, but what if one of those erectile dysfunction ads comes on? You know I get awkward around that kind of thing."
"How do you know? Tonight's the closest you've been since to that kind of thing since your 35-year-old cousin sat in your lap at that wedding last year."
"Maybe I won't play anything. It's too difficult."
"And let her listen to the sound of flop-sweat spewing out of your pores? No chance. Play that Crowded House album. Nothing says 'you' like adult contemporary."
"Good idea. Thanks."
"Who are you thanking? I am you, just the part of you that hates you. You probably shouldn't even be talking to me."
"I like the company."
"And that's why we're sleeping alone tonight."