When you love a band—especially when you’re young—you end up forming a weird, sacred, and irrational bond that’s entirely one-sided and exists only in your mind. Even when that love lasts for years and years, outlasting “real” friendships and romantic entanglements and living on as one of the only constants in your life outside of family (and maybe not even family), it’s still essentially a construction you’ve made up for the sake of entertainment. Bands can’t love you back; the best they can offer is an abstract, “Hello Cleveland!” kind of appreciation.
Being a fan is a more socially acceptable version for having an imaginary friend.
... (A Short Story I wrote for Creative Writing that had to be all "Write a story using Text messages or E-mails or IM!" So here's this.)
DamnedSpot91 (22:07:11): Could I talk to you about something?
SoundNFury92 (22:07:59): Sure, What’s Up?
DamnedSpot91 (22:08:01): I think we should break up.
DamnedSpot91 (22:08:41): Hello?
SoundNFury92 (22:08:45): …
DamnedSpot91 (22:08:55): Seriously?
DamnedSpot91 (22:09:04): I may have been a little blunt, so what? We needed to have this discussion, are you going to participate or what?
SoundNFury92 (22:09:06): …
DamnedSpot91 (22:09:26): What even is that? Did you honestly feel the need to type out an Ellipsis to indicate that you don’t want to have this conversation? Is that honestly better than ignoring me? I can’t tell, frankly.
“In attempting to make our study of literature scientific and analytical we have merely made it dull. A Shakespearean play is no cadaver, useful for an autopsy. It is a living, vibrant entity that has the power of grasping us by the hand and leading us up onto a peak in Darien. “But I can’t understand Shakespeare” says the high-school boy. “It takes a gray-bearded professor to know what he is talking about.” You are wrong, Johnny. It’s the gray beard that you can’t understand. He has asked you to read Shakespeare with a pair of glasses smoked to a dull and dingy gray. Take them off. It was written for you, for the groundlings, for the unscholarly Globe patrons who walked in from the cockfight on the street. Only those folks whose blood courses hot through their veins can understand these tingling lines. Shakespeare said everything—brain to belly, every mood and minute of a man’s season. His language is starlight and fireflies and the sun and moon. He wrote it with tears and blood and beer, and his words march like heartbeats.”—Roger Hill and Orson Welles on Shakespeare in “On the Teaching of Shakespeare and Other Great Literature”
Just smoked my last cigarette. No one speak to me for at least a week because I’ll probably kill you. eeek.
*also, quick shout out to Mary “nubnub” Wagner, for bailing last minute on our quest for a smoke free lifestyle. goddammit nub.
WHAT THE FUCK, NUBLIN?
IS THIS WHAT YOU CALL FRIENDSHIP?
…And that’s all for today’s episode of everyone’s favorite segment "Irrationally Yellin’ at Nublin” Tune in next week where Nublin gives me a Venti instead of a Grandé at Starbucks causing me to be all:
JESUS CHRIST NUBLIN HOW COULD YOU BRING SUCH EVIL UPON MAN? DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DRINK ALLLL OF THIS, NUBLIN? THERE’S SO MUCH COFFEE IN THIS, NUBLIN! FUCKIN’ A, NUBLIN! FUCKIN’ A!