metaphortunate: (Default)
"Wildest Dreams" is Taylor Swift's Lana Del Rey moment on 1989. (I almost just wrote "Lita Ford moment". I want to hear Ms. Swift's Lita Ford moment.) At first listen, lyrically, it seems to be a bog-standard "Think of me when our affair is over" kind of thing.

Say you'll remember me
Standing in a nice dress, staring at the sunset, babe
Red lips and rosy cheeks
Say you'll see me again even if it's just in your wildest dreams
And then I realized the last verse begins:

You see me in hindsight

Tangled up with you all night

Burnin' it down
So it's not that the narrator wants her lover to remember her. She knows he's gonna remember her. Fucking. And she's telling him to remember her with her clothes on and her makeup unmussed (red lips and rosy cheeks,) on her feet, looking away from him. It's the cri de coeur of a control freak who obsessively curates a virginal persona. Which I understand does describe Ms. Swift; although, to be fair, considering the way the media wants to report on female musical artists, it's hard to blame her.

And the name is hilarious. No one's wildest dreams are of someone else standing around looking at a sunset, no matter how much The One That Got Away or whatever. I don't know if any of this is on purpose or not. But it makes me like the song a lot more!
metaphortunate: (Default)
Last Christmas, he gave you his heart. The very next day, you gave it away. How did that even work? I mean, he gave you his heart, i.e. he accepted and expressed his love for you. The very next day…you caused him to fall in love with someone else? Presumably someone he didn't care for very much, hence the subsequent tears he wishes to be saved from this year? LOL most awkward regift. "Merry Christmas! I got you this guy's emotionally conflicted against-his-better-thoughts emotional obsession, with an optional side of hatesex!"

Or am I looking at this all wrong? I mean - who do you give gifts to the day after Christmas? The Goodwill, that's who! If you're really, really organized, that is, I guess, and may I say that I'm impressed. Most people's unwanted gifts sit around for weeks at least. And now that I think about it, that's brilliant. Unwanted dude declares his love for you on Christmas. The very next day, you give it away. December 27th, he wakes up with a passion for using donated retail goods to help the homeless. Sir or madam, you clearly win at Christmas.
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Well, I'm sick. Siiiiick. Missed several days of work. Second day without a voice. I think the Junebug is scared of me now because I look weird (I should probably shower) and I won't talk to him. Finally called a doctor. Doctor says 1) no, I can't have any antibiotics until I've had no voice for two weeks, because since I don't have a fever and my snot isn't really green (I've seen green; what I've got is like, maybe celadon, just right after I wake up in the morning from my fucking awful nights where I can't sleep;) 2) this shit just kind of happens when you're pregnant, because your body is worried about accidentally killing the baby, so the bits of you that are normally an army of critters that patrol your body ruthlessly dispatching anything they find trying to prey on you, are instead all restrained and jittery and asking each other "Is this the baby? Should we eat it? What if it's the baby?" "I don't know, asshole, I'm UNICELLULAR! QUIT ASKING ME!" "Okay, everybody just…be cool. Be cool. Are we dying? If we're dying, we dispatch it." "We're not dying." "Okay, then just…chill. NOBODY DO ANYTHING until we figure out if it's the baby."

So it takes a lot longer to get over anything. And I'm home sick. Being kicked from the inside. Can't really concentrate on anything productive. Let me tell you what's on my mind. Here, have a cut tag to spare your page. )
metaphortunate: (Default)
I was biking home yesterday when it occurred to me that I know two professional poker players. Professional gamblers, if you will. And neither of them particularly seems to be on his way to dying in the back of a boxcar after begging whiskey off of a stranger.

Maybe you should be counting your money when you're sitting at the table, is what I'm saying.


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metaphortunate son

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