happy fun blog!

I remember in 10th grade, a friend of mine and I played this at some weird coffeehouse thing that our high school put on semi-annually. She sang and I played bass. The year before, we’d done a spur-of-the-moment performance of the Pixies’ “Hey” (easy enough that I’ll always remember it, hard enough that it sounds impressive), which went over crazy well. The bass I used for that one belonged to the girl who replaced me in the band I’d been in in 8th grade, and everyone kind of agreed that the one little song we played was more or less better than their three song set. It was somehow gratifying.  We were emboldened by how awesome “Hey” had been, so we thought it’d be a good idea to do something new! It wasn’t. She forgot lyrics and I stumbled through the bassline like a champ. Just like the year before, the band was there, as was the boy I was trying desperately to make fall for me. I remember how harsh the fluorescent lighting seemed, like it didn’t want to let me run away from how fucking stupid I’d just made myself look in front of everyone who mattered. It was years, and countless other times embarrassing myself in front of guys I liked, before I could hear it without cringing. Really too bad; this was always one of my very favorite Weezer songs.
Anyway, now, this song reminds me of all the lovely men I’ve had teeny tiny trysts with. As much as I hate how easy I can be if I like someone, when you’re 19 or 20 and trying as hard as you possibly can to dig yourself out of a big, nasty hurt and figure out how to feel things about someone again without spooking, it’s helped…in a roundabout way. At first, I was as hard and cold as a squishy, bleeding hearted thing like me can be. It was easy to reel them in and let them go. After all, that’s what happened to me, right? And I’m just as awesome as they are, right? Maybe even more! But the further I got, the more I found myself doing all the things I used to do when I wanted more than just barely disguised booty calls. I realized (slowly, but it still happened) that I wasn’t bouncing back anymore. I was there, I’d been there for months, but patterns - especially patterns that fun - are hard to break. And I couldn’t be that anymore. God knows I’ve seen enough heartache. I couldn’t put myself in positions to feel that again, not if I could stop it. Not that I haven’t slipped up since this all dawned on me; of course I have, I’m only human. But that’s not the point.
After going to see a show tonight where the particular lovely man that made me realize I couldn’t do it anymore did amazing things on stage (so did everyone else, but this screed needs a catalyst), my iPod just happened to play this. I ran the gamut of just about everything this song could possibly make me think of, from him and him and him and him, to how - for a girl who was never cute, never sought after, barely wanted by much more than creepy dudes who’d never leave the house if their computer had an orifice - I’ve managed to score the momentary affections of real-life dirty pretty things who would’ve never looked at me even a year ago, to the one who may never stop being what I compare everyone else to. Inevitably, when he shows up, I get to wondering how all this, all I did and all I endured to become nearly everything I’d ever wanted, finally happened. I probably say this at least once every six months or so, but I wonder, if I could go back and sit next to myself in that red Honda Civic, if I told her everything that was coming for her in the next five years, what would she do? Knowing me, I’d never believe it.
And knowing me, I’d be keenly aware of the fact that this was all an overblown, seven hundred word reaction to some song.          

God, this song.