Recently, the CD player in my car broke. It’s making strange, otherworldly whirring sounds and will neither play music, nor allow me to retrieve the CDs I so foolishly placed in its care.
And while my first reaction was total, despondent despair, I quickly realized that I could live with this. See, I have one of those plug thingies that allows me to play my iPod over the car speakers.
In an example of unconscious self-sabotage at its finest, I just left my iPod up at my sister’s in Maine. MAINE.
So, I am left with the radio. Now to be clear, I have no fundamental problem with the radio. Many of my fondest childhood memories involve sitting in a car, wailing along to whatever song the radio gods chose to put forth. I like the mystery – the anticipatory ooh, what are they gonna play next feeling. See – no radio hate here.
The commercials are a little rough. I’ve definitely been spoiled by technology. Whether it be music or television, I want my entertainment and I want it now. This is particularly true in the morning. There’s a reason I don’t listen to any sort of talk or news radio in the early hours. It’s the same reason as why the Roomie and I stumble past each other in the hallway, avoiding eye contact, and maintain an unspoken pact to speak nary a word to each other until we’ve been at work for a couple hours.
Mornings are not generally comprised of my finest moments. And you know the whole thing about music soothing the savage beast? It’s true. What doesn’t work for getting the morning beastie to calm down? Talking. No, the sound of talking sends the morning beastie into incoherent howling, sprinkled with moments of Gollum-esque muttering.
Believe me when I say, you do not want to be driving next to someone, glance over into their car and see that going on.
Then there’s the fact that every radio station I’ve found has apparently been coerced into playing the same seven songs on a loop, throwing in maybe one change-up an hour (this morning’s was Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable.” Classic 2006).
So now, as I write this I’m humming One Direction’s lovely ditty about a girl being beautiful because she’s insecure and
really, really want to scream. Still, I can’t dispute their claim that the best
way to prove you’re right is to place your argument in a song. Roomie and I
live by this theory.
And so continues my descent into madness.