Music

Posted: December 14, 2011 in hidden admonishment

They all listen to the same stuff
with mild variations.
It’s not that I hate Lady Gaga and Eminem.
Well…

No.

Britney Spears is on my hard drive right along with Tuvan throat singers.
I can’t tell you which names go to what.

I click on a playlist one day, and it’s the right thing.
I click on it two days later and have to talk myself out of deleting it, because I don’t know why the fuck I would have ever created it.
I’ll come back to it an hour later and think it’s perfect again.

I code via tactile color: amber buttons, tacky red lacquer, fuzzy pink washcloth.
These are the names of my playlists.
This is how I function.
If I feel like shaking a “cloudy jar of baby teeth” a list entitled as such will get me through the duration.

I can’t tell you that I ❤ this song! I can't sing along. I can't tell you who the fuck is singing, and I don't care.

Once you are here with me, you are stripped of name, genre, and track number. You cannot find your way back to the world of iTunes for $.99 a piece from here. The lines have been cut. I don't do it out of disrespect, and sometimes when I lose you, I miss you needlessly, because I don't know how to get you back…but I'm okay with that.

Stop.

Stop asking me what I listen to. Stop trying to swap names with me. I simply do not know and telling you that I'm on a baby blue number dripping a slippery metallic substance from a five-hour block of "shattered safety glass held together with a sheet of dark window tinting film" is not going to help you to understand.

I'm sorry.

I just can't have this conversation.

Advertisements

Comments are closed.