If I have heard too much of any song this summer it is “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues” by Elton John. Not because it plays too often on the radio, no, of course not, but rather because I can’t get it out of my head. Someone who was once very close with me friend-broke-up with me (there’s no better way to describe it) and so, like it or not, this song has been speaking to me. Which is really rather absurd, seeing as we were never lovers as the song suggests, and seeing as the song does not accurately capture the distaste I feel for this girl. Perhaps it’s something in the chord progression that speaks to me.
I suppose I should describe friend-breaking-up. Her spiel went something like this: “I just feel like this relationship friendship isn’t working out for me. It’s not you, it’s me. I keep inadvertently feeling hurt or upset whenever you go out with the guys your other friends without me. I guess maybe I’m just too touchy to be your girlfriend friend, but I have to add that I think the fault does rest on your shoulders as well. I feel like you’re not willing to open up emotionally to me the way that I have to you. With that said, while I don’t think we can work as a couple friends, I think we should be just friends colleagues.”
Being told that your friend doesn’t want to have an emotional relationship with you is one thing, but being told she’d like to keep you around to proofread her essays is quite another. This simple distinction is the reason “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues” doesn’t quite fit the feelings I’m feeling right now (ie. why was I friends with someone quite that selfish in the first place?). But it also doesn’t lyrically fit any of the other feelings I’m feeling as well, seeing as its written from the perspective of estranged lovers. I do happen to think the piano has a wonderful tone to it throughout the song, and I suppose I am doomed to always have at least one Elton John song richocheting around my head for the rest of my life. And that is much better to the alternative, namely Iggy Azalea’s false southern accent. Thank god I no longer listen to top 40.
Ya gurl gunna partay at prom! Limos and dresses and underage drinking like there’s no tomorrow, amiright?
Except I’m not. Frequently asked questions:
Do you have a date?
No, because I don’t need no man. Feminism, girl power, personal self worth and shit. Actually, though, it is my dear belief that the only reason girls take dates to prom is because our dresses don’t have pockets, whereas suits do. Like seriously, I checked my jacket–the only thing I was wearing with pockets–at the coat check last year, and they gave me a little slip with my number on it. I was like, “wait, what am I supposed to do with this, though? I have nowhere to put it.” But had I had a date, I would’ve just given it to him. Boys aren’t the commodity here, pockets are. That’s right, men, if you had a date at prom, she did not actually like you. She did, however, want to fuck your pockets. Continue reading →
This is the second of what will likely be a series of posts regarding my recent trip to New York. In the following, I will question (bash) the efficacy of long-distance relationships, make fun of an individual’s personality and aesthetics, and be a general asshole. If any of the above topics will offend you, I advise you quit reading. Continue reading →
I was walking through the forest one day when my foot was rudely blocked by a large something-or-another. The large something or another turned out to be a rock. I went sprawling onto the ground and, by the force of my foot, it went skipping out in front of me. Dazed, I stood up, brushed myself off, and looked at the object I had collided with. I apologized profusely, and it said nothing.
I feel as if I ought to write about Valentine’s Day. It’s the trending tag on WordPress, and fairly relevant seeing as today is the 14th. Since I am resolutely single (see Oh What a (Anticlimactic) Night), that post would err on the side of rational, a word starry-eyed romantics call bitter.