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.
Problem solved!
Right?
Wrong.
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.
Except…
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 kind of
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.
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