Bittersweet Symphony.

 Perhaps this would be the wrong time for me to write a shitload of editorials (considering I just broke up with my girlfriend, Paige- trust me you’ll hear about her a helluva lot) or perhaps it is just the right timing, considering this is a rant that has to do with heart break and incompetence.

Anyway, like I stated earlier, I have just recently broken up with my girlfriend so I haven’t been doing very much except listening to music. However, when I listen to my mp3’s, CD’s, the radio, or, god-forbid, MTV, I seem to come across a love song stating one of two of the following things: 1) Unconditional love, and happiness. 2) Or hopeless crying and apology for what they have done to their “love.” These two forms of love “ballads” flood the airwaves all across the goddamn country everyday, soothing girls, annoying some guys, while inducing tears for others. (I don’t care what anyone thinks, some guys are not sexist pigs who just want to fuck, some of us actually want a relationship full of love and care- we’re called fags- but seriously, some guys want that type of thing in their life, and when Staind’s Aaron Lewis comes on stage and starts to sing about how he wants to be on the inside [of a relationship you perverts] it is going to hurt a guy.)

And now for the thesis:

There are two types of theorem in this particular nugget of wisdom:

Type 1: Music makes guys look bad.

Considering most females base their entire lives on what the see everyday on TRL, all they ever encounter from what a relationship “should” have is from rap singers’ and “poetic” pop-rockers’ (Dave Matthews Band, Incubus, Sugar Ray, you know; Pussy Rock. Simply defined as rock n’ roll made by pussies to get pussy from crying females who will no-doubt acquire an inferiority complex from these singers fucking [or not fucking] them and listening to these jerk-offs talk for more than two minutes) lyrics that promise these young happyhole-holders that they will love them forever and whisper sweet poetry in their ears on a moonlit night on a beach somewhere in Maine as they slowly slide rose petals on their naked body and- aww you know the crap. It’s basically pillow talk with a shitty beat.

Females are desensitized that they are going to get this romance from all men. They don’t understand that is just a ploy (and a clever one at that) to get them to fuck. So, when a male does not fulfill the female’s romantic/fetish needs the female gets pissed and dumps the guy accusing him of not being “sensitive to her needs.” Bam! The guy is back to jerkin’ off until he finds another chick so the whole evil process can start again.

Now with that point made now onto…

Type 2:             Music pours salt in the wound.

            Okay, picture this: You are fifteen and you have just broken up with your girlfriend that really liked, possibly even loved. You can home after explaining to your now-ex chick how the relationship could never work, now matter how much you wanted to (even though that bitch didn’t give a flying fuck about your ass. Instead she just wanted to mess around with your feelings, and treats you like shit until you have end the whole thing even though it hurts you more than anything could ever hurt that uncaring, unloving, mean-ass bitch! …Oh, sorry, that’s a different story). Where was I? Oh yes, you make it home and sit at your computer and pop in a CD. For this little experiment we’ll say it’s Stabbing Westward’s Whither, Blister, Burn, Peel.  Anyway, you’re sitting there listening to your CD and reading rumors from Rajahwwf.com (the best damn WWF site on the web!) when all of the sudden “What Do I Have To Do” graces the speakers. You breakdown as the song seems to carry a conversation through you to your ex, begging for a way to regain her love. Congratulations, you have jut become a victim of Rock n’ Roll’s evil double-edged sword.

            When one is wrapped in such a suffocation of emotions, their senses are keener to pick up little thoughts or statements, especially in something like a song. (For some they pick up meanings to songs quite easily and frequently. I, on the other hand, do not think music has meaning. Music is simply music. You listen to it. If you want feeling you go read fuckin’ poetry. I listen to music because I wanna hear Slipknot bang on some fuckin’ drums and blast some distorted chords as they scream into the mic the best way to kill a human being with a crowbar. However, if the time is right, I may find meaning in a song.)

            Even still, if you are already feeling low and someone out there decides to remind you of every fucked up thing that has recently happened by expressing how they went through the same, or similar situation. Case in point: Music adds salt to the wound of love, and what a wide wound it is. (I would usually write a conclusion paragraph, but after that last line, of which I think is badass, I am just going to fade out with the best writing tool ever: three periods)…