First off, no, this isn’t cheating. This is my music list and I can do whatever I want with it – I love being able to make my own rules and change them at any time I want. This doesn’t mean the next song on the countdown will be number 93. This means these two songs are interchangeable, and at any point one or the other can be placed at spot 95. And also the next wouldn’t be 93 anyway, but instead the number 96 song would have to be bumped back to 97 and so on and so forth. But we don’t have to deal with any of that. Instead we continue on like this is perfectly normal and I go on to talk about how hot Kate Nash is and how I want to have sex with her…music lyrics. Sure, I might throw her a bone too if I’m feeling generous.
I once again love redheads. Kate Nash is partially to blame for this. I use the word blame because it sucks being attracted to so many chicks. Seriously, it sounds nice, but you try walking around with four inches of pure agony in your pants after every third chick you walk by. Oh crap, did I say four inches? (Yes, very generous today, are we?) Shut up, you. Luckily I’m perfectly content with masturbating, well not perfectly, whereas a couple of friends I have when seeing a hot chick walk by would immediately go to how badly they want to fuck her and then get upset at the fact that they can’t fuck her. I just think about how badly I want to go home and think about fucking her while I masturbate, and guess what, I can do that, although unfortunately I never do. With the internet there’s no need to anymore. I just boringly flip on some porn, go at myself, feel disgusted, and then take a nap. It’s rather boring actually. So monotonous. I guess that’s why people like sex. Hmm, maybe I’ll have to try this sex thing so many human beings tend to be fascinated with. I wonder how much sex Kate Nash has had? I seriously wonder about things like that.
We Get On is a song depressing to me. Especially the part where she’s talking about the things she doesn’t do that she clearly does: “I don’t even have an opinion on that tramp you’re still dating.” This song is too relatable to me. I always like girls and can never tell them that I like them and then I like them way longer then I should and when they get with someone I pretend like it doesn’t matter but it does. Apparently that’s all I have to say about this song, so let’s move on to the next one.
Kate Nash may hate seagulls, but I love the song I Hate Seagulls. I hate when people say things like that. It never happens in real life but it happens all the time on TV or the radio. The song starts off with her just naming a bunch of things she hates, but then it gets into things she likes and it all has to do with romancy things – I really don’t care if romancy isn’t a word, I’m serious, I really don’t care anymore about what is and isn’t a word as long as people get the point. Of course I’m a sucker for cheesy romantic lyrics. It’s nothing along the lines of Shakespeare, and it’s not even really cheesy, it’s basically straight forward. She likes sleeping in the guy’s bed. She likes knowing what’s going on in his head. Plain lyrics but they touch me in a way I can only equate with the opposite feeling of when Uncle Ron touches me – I really have an Uncle Ron but he’d never read this and as far as I know he’s never touched me, but unfortunately after learning about repressed memories I’m not canceling anything out, and I mean anything.
Songs like this make me happy but also depress me. The line “I like when your hand is in mine” gets to me every time, but it’s nothing unique to this song. Whenever I hear lyrics about holding hands or see people holding hands it gets me down. It’s something so basic, yet seems so intangible. Earlier tonight I felt extremely troubled because I couldn’t imagine myself having sex. Like when I try it’s kind of two human blurs blending into each other. I can’t picture myself clearly or picture the girl clearly or even the intercourse clearly, unless I zoom in on the penis and vagina, but even then I’m not sure it’s my penis and I have no idea whose vagina it is, could be plastic for all I know. It’s just kind of implied that sex is happening, but I’ll equate it to being like if I drew a picture of two stick figures having sex.
There’s no detail to it. You can tell what’s going on, but no story to it, no emotion. I feel that way with holding hands. I can’t imagine what holding hands is like. I can only figure it’s one of the few most spectacular things in the world, but I don’t know how it feels, and I don’t know how to go about doing it, and it feels awkward thinking about it. I feel that’s the saddest thing in the world. Not just the saddest thing about me, but the saddest thing in the world. I feel kind of stupid explaining this.