neonfaerie

Eh.

I guess that last entry was- not exactly a cry for help, no, nothing that dramatic, more just of a squawk of fear that my delicately balanced self esteem was not quite as steady one would hope. It is certainly silly. I cannot think of anyone else since high school who has felt the need to trash me so extensively that most of it is unrepeatable. For a 42 year old to do it is pretty mindblowing. It says volumes about that 42 year, none of it flattering stuff. But, part of me keeps whispering “you made her do it- you’re not very nice and she picked up on that. You’re not very smart and she could see that. She made you nervous, you showed it and now she despises your insecurity.

And face it, she’s right to.”

Argh. This part of my brain gets me nowhere except into a very dark poky little corner. I have spent a long time there, it doesn’t make me feel grown up or powerful at all.

Luckily I have a fair bit of evidence to suggest I may be a good person after all- I’ve had a few long term relationships, my friends seem to be, you know, friends, most people who catch my eye smile at me. I can’t be that dreadful. I just have to stop believing in rather punishingly Catholic notions of the nasty things in life always being good for me, worth far,  far more to my growth as a person than any happiness or praise. And thusly, that I should get in there and revel in the chance to “learn something” from every single experience that stings. That’s not taking your medicine, that’s drinking the Kool Aid.

A good thing about my job (and I'm scratching grimly around looking for them right now) is that there is no playlist. Unlike Borders, where the same six incredibly bland cds would be on rotation for weeks, haunting your dreams and dogging your thoughts.

 But it ain't no anarchist free- for- all. Every so often the boss decides he cannot take any more of my "suicide music", as he dubs it. Something overly ponderous catches his attention over our instore loud speakers, and he will storm out of his office and turn off the Cure or Azure Ray or whatever is bothering him with a fierce snap; either replacing it with James Brown or setting me the challenge of finding something in our large shop collection that will not irritate him with its' high mope factor.

 But his demands for musical jauntiness did bite him in the bum today. Because I was randomly cross to the power of 23, but still have to at least get myself seen to be bowing to authority, I replaced New Order, upon hearing the vaguely biweekly ultimatum yet again, with Katrina and the Waves' one and only hit. Walking on Sunshine.  A song so agressively perky, so poisonously upbeat that even a summer camp counsellor would grind their teeth and speak to you roughly upon repeated exposure. Hey! Alright now! Wooh! Ah, yeah. Only cocaine can explain the sheer overbearing exuberance in Katrina Whateverhernameis's vocal performance here. But we have no cocaine at the bookshop on a Monday morning, and hence that level of pugnacious joy is a little hard to bear. Wooh! Yeah!
Argh.
Please.
 Stop.

And with such a delightful kick- off to my work week still ringing in my ears, I was a good girl from thereon in, and no ditties designed for emo conventions were played, at least in bossman earshot. But allowing our youngest staff member free rein with his Ipod resulted in an awful (really awful) lot of John Mayer getting aired instead. Enough JM to make customers giggle and pass smarmy remarks about our collective taste. Damn.  But there's only so much aural horror and misplaced rudeness about my musical predilections  I can bear in a day. And after another gale of customer giggles, and being told for the third time that morning that my body is a wonderland, I had a stompy fit and replaced it. With the John Butler Trio.

Yes, I know. But at least when I am busily ignoring Sunrise Over Sea I am being mentally assailed with no creeepy images of John Butler cavalierly treating my ladyparts like a bouncy castle.I don't need that. Of the Johns, Butler is far less spookily sexual than Mayer. It's a win, of sorts.

But changing the tunes thusly did get me thinking about both these men too damn much, and by extension just how to best describe their oeuvre. Marcus isn't really a fan either, and he asked me just what we would call their schtick, if shove it into a genre we must. "It's kind of bland, but still makes me think of potsmoking," he said, "that's weird, in my view. I can ignore it and yet I don't think the police would like it. It makes me happy, but in a very empty way."

I'm not sure if there is a comfy soul-suckage section at JB Hi-Fi these days, but they need one. Unless they put a sign on the door reading "Musical Challenge free Zone" and  have done with it. Honesty in advertising, right there. But my description was Indie Elevator Music and that seems a little kinder. When you want cossetting but still need to qualify as one of the funny-haired alternative kids. Don't we all get that mood now and then?

Frankly, I'd take that one any old time about now over my current "Kill Everyone" mood, which is completely unmixed with any crybaby elements. It's horrible. Being this angry for no damn fucking reason at all is hurting the backs eye of my eyes. Truly, I suspect it's just turbo PMS, but it still needs to go away before I get all small and Arnie on someone's arse. And probably make them laugh. Right now I need all the dignity scraps I can gather to my aching bosom. A bosom that feels completely unwondrous, since you hadn't asked. I need some Midol. But I would not say no to the cocaine...