Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Love Clearinghouse! FTW! Part 1

Ahhhhh February is finally upon us once again.  Love month.  If you're happily in love, I hope you hug up and love the everloving crap out of him or her.  Yay!

This post is for everybody else.

It's a LOVE CLEARINGHOUSE!  Everything about my heart MUST GO!  It's like Cyber Monday meets Locker Clean-Out Friday!  WOOOOOOOO


How are all these records organized?

So first off, I'd like to give a big fat FUCK YOU to Walt Disney for this bullshit:

Way to set us up with some unrealistic expectations.  Because of this, and the many Disney propagandas, all the little chicks grow up thinking, some day my prince will come.  He will see me and instantly love me because he will know that I am really pretty, and sweet, and quiet, and hardworking, and oh so well behaved!  Well guess what?  You just got tricked into being sweet and quiet and hardworking and well behaved FOR YOUR WHOLE LIFE by an evil corporation.  There are no princes.  Even real princes are not princes.  Like the one I went to school with who was pushing a shopping cart full of prostitutes down the street at 3 am on a Tuesday.  True story.

I'm sorry.  It's okay.  I got tricked too.  I'm just glad I got clued in early to this racket so I didn't miss all the fun in life.

Speaking of school, there was a class at that time called, "Lives Ruined by Literature."  I didn't take it, but the title always intrigued me.  I've always thought that there should be a class called "Lives Ruined by Music" and then maybe I wouldn't feel so alone in my anguish.  Disney's not the only motherfucker on the block.  There are all these amazing songs about unconditional LOVE!  PASSION!  HONOR!  VALOR!  So why does it seem crazy to expect to see those sentiments reflected in reality?

I'm starting to think the problem might be that songs are usually only about 3 minutes long.  Like in real life.

For example, there's the goddam Who.  Look, Men of Earth, if you're ever going to sing a song for a woman, or hold up a boombox to her window at night, for fuck's sake, don't play Peter Gabriel.  (Sorry to keep dragging John Cusack into this.  It's not his fault.)  Play this:

I always thought, shit, I would be so happy if someone wrote this song for me.  Or even just played it for me.  Or told me they felt this way about me.  I reckon someone probably has, at some point, for maybe 3 minutes.  And I'm like, okay dude, chill, come on and get you some.  And then they turn back into a frog.  Always, always, always.

I am so glad the moon is finally waning.  The flood gates can come down.  That felt good.

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