As I lie here with my oversized headphones on, blocking out all noise but those of my indie heroes and heroines, it occurs to me that it is this constant sadness that has prevented me from ever really growing up. When I was 16 I has the emotional maturity of a 22 year old. Now as 30 looms nearer and nearer I realize that I still have the highs and lows of an Emo kid who just discovered his first Dashboard Confessional album. What the hell happened to the last 10 years? When did my life turn so mediocre? Didn’t I once have dreams of being the great educator? How could I ever hope to teach teenagers when I live out my life like a particularly sad Belle and Sebastian song?
Any sober and rational person would tell me the answer is simple. Ignite the wick, set off the dynamite, start the car, put those wheels in motion... Stop using horrible metaphors. Let’s get to the point. Do something with your life that eliminates that sad. I have debated this theory unending and come to an epiphany of sorts... I like being sad. There is some twisted part of me that finds comfort in curling up into a ball when my soul is particularly sore from failed love, failed friendships, realizations of failed self... I would say there is not a single type of heartache that, in some small way, doesn’t bring some small elation to the most shattered and minute corner of my heart. You have to admit, there is something tragically beautiful about being that sad.
So there we have it... I love being miserable? This awakening was, at first, horrifying. It’s not like I don’t want to be happy. There are nights that are warm and welcoming with summer smells and starry skies, nights filled with magic that charms hearts and libidos alike, when I want nothing more than to be with someone who makes me feel this wonder. The irony is, when I do find myself in love’s lock, I realize that I want nothing to do with it. Much of this is based off of honest to goodness heartache. Each girl who has loved me and left me gave me a little more practice. Looking at the long term relationships I have seen around me has not been encouraging either. People grow apart as friends, lovers, husbands and wives, even enemies. Who knows one day I might even admit Burt Reynolds isn’t a dastardly, creepy pedophilia case waiting to happen. OK, now that is depressing. The point is that watching all of this happen has left me devoid of all trust when it comes to what I want so desperately to feel the most. Love?
Hello, my name is Keith, and I have never been in a normal functioning relationship. Hi, Keith.
About two minutes ago I was coming to the conclusion that this was all the fault of the fairer sex and blazing hormones, when through my ear’s fortress of plastic, foam, and emo played...
“Do I drive you up the wall?
Do you dread every phone call?
Can you not stand me at all?
Yeah! Oh, yeah!
Though I need you more than air
is it true you just don't care?
Are you having an affair?
Yeah! Oh, yeah!” - The Magnetic Fields
I then realized that my cherished folk heroes are just as much to blame for my current predicament as any flesh and blood girl. I base my relationships off indie celebutaunts (patent pending) and the Hollywood likes of Wes Anderson and Jim Jarmusch. What kind of role models do I look up to?
Suddenly I feel much better about myself. Fuck you Stephin Merritt and Claudia Gonson. Fuck you Margot Tenenbaum. I’m going to start taking advice from real people. So fuck you... Who am I kidding, I love you, Margot, with all of my black heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment