So, WTF Song of the Moment - Hinder's Lips of an Angel. Why was this song such a hit? What could possibly be remotely appealing about a whiny man-child who whines to his ex on the phone in between nookie with his current girlfriend, in HER HOUSE? The mind boggles.
Nickelback is an equally infuriating band. I may be bizarre, but I even I have limits, and one of those limits is a stringy-blond man with no balls and a fake growl. And I am not even sure whether the worst part of that is the fake growl or the lack of testicles.
(I could be wrong about the no-balls bit, of course; maybe they just retract back into him in shame when he sings things like look at this photograph, everytime I do it makes me laugh )
I think I'll go with the fake growl. Either you've got a creepy-but-hot voice or you haven't, and everytime you put your fake bedroom voice on, I run screaming out of my door and kill a small animal. (Hear that, Chad? Every time you sing 'Photograph', a kitten dies. Think about that.)
Since I am on the topic of music, let me say I enjoy lots of music. I am not barbaric. I even like classical music, though as a dyed-in-the-wool Tam Bram, I was brought up on a wholesome diet of curd rice, rasam rice, fried papad and Hindustani-music-is-NOT-classical, with a healthy side order of HA-HA-those-deluded-Naarth-Indians. But I am sophisticated. I like qawwals (Altaf Raja) and Sufi music, though I draw the line at A R Rahman's heartfelt but indisputably Tamil-accented 'kwaaja jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee'. It's supposed to be a cry from the heart, but I always snort.
And by snort, of course, I mean laugh delicately but cuttingly. Derisively.
Anyway, winter is over. Or that's what it looks like from inside the cave I'm in, which consists of two sweaters, a sweatshirt, a muffler, a scarf, two pairs of socks, leg warmers and two pairs of track pants, two woollen blankets, a fleece blanket and a bunch of pillows. My pillows wear sweaters because I find that they get really cold otherwise, and I hate the feeling of cold cotton on my neck. All this warmth makes it difficult to haul myself out of bed early in the morning. I start out grimly determined, but the inevitable happens.
So, a couple of things to be noted here -
1. I am too cool for Photoshop.
2. I think I may be too cool for MSPaint also. :( alternatively,
3. Don'tcha love my mad MSPaint skillz? :)
Ahem. Moving on.
Wearing too many warm clothes makes you physically schizophrenic; wherever you're covered, it's the Bahamas, but where you're not, it's Siberia. What I mean is, I remember a couple of weeks back, I was typing out something pointless and formatting it perfectly, when I realised that my fingers and nose-tip were freezing, but I was probably reading a 103 degrees Fahrenheit on my tummy. There is something truly creepy about that.
In other news, I am in love with Amy Winehouse. Such an amber honey, midnight sky voice. A shiny crimson pointy nail stroking black velvet voice. A smoky nightclub, beaded dress, flapper party voice. A voice to fall in love with for a few hours and then go home alone to a cold bed. She says she's trouble, she's no good, but she's lazy drawling like she knows you'll follow her anywhere.
And you could follow her anywhere, if you wanted to. She's orange, and her implants look like they'd glow in the dark. She's a little hard to miss. Such is the magic of fake tan and silicone. Things like this are the reason that I hate watching music videos of the songs I fall in love with. You should form your own fucking images and never let anyone else's images mess yours up.
These days I like music that makes me unhappy. It's almost as though I don't know how to unlock all the sadness inside me unless the right song comes along, and then all is sweet release.
And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time.
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her skies..
I'm entirely aware that this blog is one Dashboard Confessional lyric away from being an emo blog.
But life has to get better than this. I am too awesome to be sad.
(P.S. - Please send me icecream.)