I'm Doing That Thing I Do Again...
I need someone to take away my playlists and smack me in the frontal lobe with a crowbar, STAT.
The song:
What in the actual fuck am I doing? Man, I was solid. I was golden. I had this shit sewed up, we were on our way to the nearest exit.
Then I listened to a song that took me somewhere I have no business being, and I found myself reading messages that shouldn’t even still exist. I told myself last month I was deleting them.
I didn’t.
Allow me a moment to digress.
Sometimes I fancy myself a writer. As such, I let lyrics to songs worm their way into my brain, and I spend countless hours convincing myself that those words somehow apply to the Fuckboy I’m affiliated with. It’s an exercise in futility, obviously, because duh, Fuckboys barely keep a firm grip on the English language, never mind catching my double entendres that I leave littering the loose-leaf, single spaced substitutions for the shit I’m, honestly, never going to hear.
So, for one reason or another today, I told myself there was no harm in hearing that song again, I can handle it, it’s just a song anyway, stupid.
*cue the fucking sound of the record scratching* is all that we should have heard at this point, but nooooo… I’m a fucking tough guy. Gruff Gruff Gruff and all of that nonsense.
Now enter the messages I should have deleted when 5.0 left my life like he never even knew me. Did I delete said messages, you ask? Now, what in the fuck do you think? I know you hear me sitting here being a fucking crybaby about it. Of course, I didn’t delete the messages. I’m a masochist, obviously.
How was I going to tell myself that it meant something, and wasn’t a colossal waste of time, energy, and effort, if I didn’t have the actual dream he sold me to reread like a goddamned psycho every day for 2 straight weeks?
Right. I couldn’t have. Thus, enter today, roughly 15 minutes ago: “Hey bitch, don’t you think it would be wise to turn this bullshit off before you get emotional?”
“What? What do you mean, bitch? I got this. I can handle it. It’s a song, ok, not a fucking concerto. I’m not going to fall apart”.
Roughly 10 minutes ago: Totally fucking falls apart.
And I still haven’t deleted the messages. However, I’m considering throwing my phone in the lake so it will do it for me, if that counts for anything.
Yeah, I didn’t figure it would.
I don’t know, I keep looking for the root cause of this catastrophe. I got nothing.
“Thank you for calling 1-800-Fuckboy, Ms. Macon speaking. How would you like to humiliate me this evening? Seems we’re having a BOGO event on it around here… “
Delete that shit.
At your request, I can provide a really awesome "fuck this feelings & shit" playlist to eradicate the sappy stuff, sis (and we won't talk about the fact that about a week ago I sobbed my way through my anniversary listening to all those same "feelings & shit" songs currently plaguing you). Betcha BMan can contribute many suggestions as well. 🎶
And for the record, the root cause of this catastrophe? It's because you're an incredibly strong, loving and decent person who deserves to be able to listen to those songs with happy, not hurtful, thoughts. ❤