After emes posted about it the other day, I’ve probably listened to this song fifty times. NEVER ENOUGH. My “birthday party” is on Friday, and my plan is to wear a dress and play this on repeat. If I could roller skate around my kitchen to it while eating birthday cake, that would be the icing on the proverbial birthday cake. BIRTHDAY CAKE!
I try not to let this blog get too Tumblr in-jokey. I don’t like when things on the internet become overly self-referential.
I just have to say that I want this girl and this boy to fall in love. I really think they would hit it off. They’d have sardonic conversations in hidden little coffee shops where they’d make witty observations about people outside the window. They wouldn’t talk over each other. Every sentence would be punctuated and followed by an even pause. Slowly, they’d reveal things about themselves (small things, true things) through dryly self-deprecating comments. Then one day, she’d catch herself thinking about his sad eyes. Sitting quietly in bed, he’d spend too much time contemplating her hair (god, that hair!). They’d fall in love over a meal of something peculiar and not at all beautiful (rice pudding, perhaps?). They would be at a loss for words.
“So I was hanging out with a boy tonight, and that was great and all… But as we were sitting here watching a movie, all I could think about was when is this motherfucker gonna leave so I can make some pancakes???”—
But the other pain…
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better or worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look…
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.
”—Anne Sexton, excerpts from The Big Boots of Pain
Wearing a uniform every day has made me completely fashion starved and consequently unable to distinguish appropriate attire for casual occasions. Last night I went to a burger joint with my mom and grandma. I wore four inch heels.
This Message is Brought To You By Boy Bands, Mandy Moore, Mariah Carey, and The Coyote Ugly Soundtrack
Today I found a mix cd in the basement entitled Summer 2001. I had made it. I listened to it on the way to work and was appalled and also kind of pleased (!) to find out that I still knew all the lyrics to (relatively?) obscure Backstreet Boys songs.
I get why certain restrictive social practices are in place. I shouldn’t say aloud every thought that comes into my head because it would not be particularly diplomatic. I shouldn’t eat candy and french fries for every meal because I would get sick and then die. I shouldn’t drive recklessly, no matter how good the song on the radio is because it’s important to remember that the car is not an extension of my (dancin) body, but a powerful and dangerous killing machine.
What I can’t understand, however, is why I can’t wear whatever the hell I want, all the time. I want to wear circus tent-like gowns and red stripper heels. I want to wear tutus with big black boots. I want to wear Grace Kelly inspired cocktail dresses to work and 18th century fashions to the mall. I never want to wear sneakers or gym shorts or “work pants” ever again.
And maybe even more, I want to see what everyone else would wear. I know a lot of people say they’d just wear pajamas every day if no one would look at them like they were crazy, but I relate a lot more to girls who have a closet full of sequin-encrusted outfits that will never see the light of day. Because that’s heartbreaking. You know?
“I would like to watch you do your every day things, to sit by in silence and watch you pack your bags and find your toothbrush and shuffle in and out of your flip flops. I want to see how you type on your computer and plug in your phone to charge at night, to not say anything or ask you any questions but just look at you and love you and ensure, very quietly, that you are human.”—
This is the thing that is surprising to me no matter how many times I relearn it - how relationships unmask us and allow us to see each other in all our unremarkable routine. And how thrilling that can be.
Mostly, I fall in love with songs that I relate to. I hear their lyrics and say “yes. that’s it. that is what I meant, exactly.” And then there are those other songs. They are not meant for singing along. They are songs meant for singing AT someone. They are songs you almost can’t listen to because you’ve known too many people who would have liked to sing them to you. No one breaks my heart like Ben Folds. This song is mine, whether I want it or not.
Well, When I Said Anything, I Didn't Mean Anything
I finally finished watching Say Anything for the first time. I’m confused. Do people like it because it’s comically bad? Because John Cusak talks very quickly? Because Ione Skye’s mouth is mesmerizing? I think everyone confuses movies that are infinitely quotable with movies that are actually good. Say Anything is the former.
You know what? Lloyd Dobler is not even that great a character. Yeah. I said it. Give me Rob Gordon instead. I’ll take his solipsistic mixtapes over Lloyd’s grand romantic gestures any day. Here’s the key difference between them: Lloyd was certain that what he wanted to be when he grew up was Diane’s boyfriend. Rob was ten years older and still making lists of what he wanted to be when he grew up. And I guess I like that. Maybe one day I’ll be mature enough to understand a character like Lloyd’s. But for now, I like Rob. I like him because he’s real and because he’s a jerk.