I Don’t Want Love // The Antlers

I’m a bit drunk. No — wait — very. I watched four hours of Sports Center only to witness the deplorable defeat our Giants took, shaking off the loss with their chins glued to their chest’s while the Saint’s marched off looking hotter than hell in their tight, black uniforms. And I sink deeper because the beer is settling in my system as is this terribly addictive song. I am just unmarked by it’s repetitiveness. It’s been the constant soundtrack for my morning and nightly rituals, and even then, it is remarkably soothing after ten thousand plays.

I like the lyrics. I like the steady melancholy that sifts through. My gratitude falls in the fact that men can write and sing words that I personally believe persons with the Y chromosome are incapable of even thinking. But wait. Maybe I’m jaded and bitter, scuffed by love since my first taste of scorn. Maybe it’s not even love that gets to me as much as all the bullshit that entails a good thing just having to end. There isn’t any other reason despite a deadline, and even that deadline is arbitrary when considering all the new adventures that are just on the horizon for me. But I guess you can’t rationalize a chemistry that was unwanted from the start, yet surprisingly even to you, receptively felt strongly towards the end. And just like the song implies, love, lust, and like are tricky toys. They constantly prick at you trying to get under your skin. And if you’re anything like this pile of incertitude, guaranteed you too would want to kick any unnerving feelings down a flight of stairs.

So, my Giants lost. Their season is just Ehh. They shake it off well after every hit and neck-breaking blow. Yet they are remembered for winning the superbowl with one of the most famous plays in Superbowl history thanks to Eli Manning having a stroke of luck on one of his better days. And they are still glorified by their fans who act more like friends full of conviction and pride. And I guess love, lust, and like is all relatively the same. You get hit and smacked, constantly ripped to the ground after an ultimate score, and eventually you pick yourself back up and brush the dirt off your shoulders.

It’s just a game after all. There is always an end. Win or lose.


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