Sometimes when I leave a social setting (not sometimes… always) I find myself driving aimlessly listening to music that either gets me lifted or lets my mind drift. Tonight was like any other, except I really wanted to mellow out in my badass 2005 Hyundai, so I decided to play these Old Heads. As soon as this song started I was immediately brought back to the extra-king sized bed in Manayunk where I ended up “making love” to this song for my “first time.” (Making love = sex. First time = sex with a new guy.) The fact that we had waited a few dates to bone was mature, but the fact that we waited for PIV only until this song started to play seemed contrived and too intense. It was like our sex had to be just right, perfect even, when in reality it was a mentally rehearsed act that either I nor him had really worked through beforehand instead of just letting sex play out naturally. It didn’t help that he had a built-in bookshelf encasing his casino-style bed, with candles lining each crevice next to Aphrodisiac Food books that singlehandedly made me feel cheap. But if it hadn’t been for the whole movie-like set – including a plot-line of a psychotic, post-breakup fantasy world that I surrounded myself in – I might have seen things more clearly even through our heavy substance abuse. Because let’s be honest. Us betches that are recently single will find comfort in almost anything. (i.e. pillows, hair brushes, the refrigerator, Magic 93 afterhours, Titanic, Adele.) We just don’t have a clear grip on anything, let alone new beginnings with strange, tattooed men. And because we failed in our previous relationship, we cling to boys like flies to shit. And you know how much I enjoy relating my life to shit. So this particular dude that played this particular song had no idea that he was fucked from the moment he met particular me; literally and figuratively speaking. Especially because you can’t recreate an island-like romance in some chintzy, golden bedroom with garage-sale art decorating the walls and a poorly, painted guitar an ex-girlfriend gave you that you decided to mount above your CD collection. Let’s be real. You know I already Facebooked that chick and saw her bad lip piercing, painted on eye brows, and an apple-bottom in the bad kind of way.
Speaking of apples, let’s all hold our candle apps in the air in honor of our main man Steve Jobs. Rest in Peace, and thank you. You are the sole reason I can stalk any hoe from my handheld device no matter if I’m by the pool, eating dinner, or taking a poo.