This morning, I found this CD.
My two former best friends -- with whom I also lived for a bit in Thüringen, Deutschland before I moved down to Baden-Württemberg -- made me this CD. It's full of happy hardcore dance tracks at extremely high BPMs.
It made me think of two things:
1) I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to anyone who was at any of my shows during the winter where I may have code-switched into German. (#manic)
I am just now coming to grips with the fact that it is no longer the holidays.
I only started coming to grips with this fact when I went to get a massage a couple weeks ago. I told the MALE therapist that it was a really stressful holiday season, and he said, “You know it’s almost March, right?” And I kept quiet because I didn’t really know it was almost March. And then he touched me and was like, “Jesus, how stressful was it?!”
Alsoooo . . . Tut mir leid.
2) When it comes to looking back and thinking, “Gee, I sure liked some terrible music when I was younger,” I think I certainly take the prize.
Now, of course, I say “terrible” with absolute reverence.
I got so emotional listening to some of these tracks on my way to get a coffee and donut today, I couldn’t believe I used to have the emotional depth that these tracks supported. Or the absolute inspiration and motivation to change my fucking life . . . as soon as I find my way out of this fucking desert. Fuck, I’ve got those wobbly eyes again, and I thiiiink we parked in the direction of that mountain ridge. Awwww, fuck . . . Do you hear that bird right now? It’s taunting me with beats!! *three best friends and one new friend who was just found crying alone in the desert, break out into dance*
I LOVE this music.
It’s a part of some of the best and worst times of my life. If it weren’t for the people and the events that surrounded this music, I wouldn’t be here today.
That being said, however, this music is absolutely ridiculous, especially to someone who has never connected with it on a deeper level.
I’m just imagining myself in the old folks’ home, asking the nurse to put on some music to calm me, to help me remember the good old days . . .
And this fucking shit comes on.
Then all of a sudden, I’m asking the nurse for a light show, and I’m massaging the cute volunteer boy who reminds me of the first dude I ever tried dancing away from or back to or whatever, and -- for just one moment -- I’m happy again. I’m young. I’m vibrant. I’m wearing fake fur EVERYTHING, and I’m sucking on a Blow Pop that came from god knows what stranger's mouth.
But then I realize that my taste in music may not be the same as the other forgotten people in the old folks’ home.
I think momentarily, maybe I should turn it down, but I realize that my life is fleeting, and I need to extract all the joy from it while I still can.
Plus, I realize it doesn’t really matter because I’m not actually in an old folks’ home anyways.
I’m on the street.
Because no one loves me.
And I have no money.
But awwww fuck . . . Do you hear that feral cat right now? It's taunting me with beats!! *I break out dancing with my two former best friends in the middle of an open field in Jena with Napoléon Bonaparte, half the 1973 Harlem Globetrotters team, and Franz Kafka -- of course.*
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.