“I’m concerned”, I said to my psychiatrist as I looked down at my thumbs.
God, they’re some big ass fucking thumbs.
I don’t have a therapist.
However, I did at one point.
If I still had a therapist this would be the first thing I’d say to her as I sit down for my session.
It does concern me that I no longer have the distinct urge to rip my face off and sling it against a window when I hear Michael McDonald. Even worse, sometimes you’ll find me standing on a table, very enthusiastically shouting, “No, seriously guys, even the black folks think Darryl Hall is awesome.”
I want to know what this all means. Does it signify that I’m getting old? Does the moment you go from thinking, “Quick! “Saturday in the Park” is making my ears bleed” to “Hey, don’t change the station, I kind of dig Chicago” signify the immediate transition from young person into adult? Will Peter Cetera and Bruce Hornsby class=”Apple-style-span” style=”font-family: georgia;”> walk with me as I traverse this new territory into womanhood? The days of lying in bed, pretending to be stoned when I’m really not and listening to, like really listening to Arcade Fire will be replaced with candlelit hearty, but sensible dinners with a bearded man and Time Life Easy Listening CD collection. Pretentious and nonsensical statements like “Spencer Krug’s work on Sunset Rubdown appeared more inspired, more whimsical, than any of Wolf Parade’s ventures” turns into, “I prefer Steve Winwood’s solo works”. I’ll probably name my kid Rhiannon and she’ll grow up to think I have terrible taste in music. Just like how I’d shake my head and slam my door shut the second C, S, N, & Y’s Greatest Hits came on the household stereo.