rough outline of something that will hopefully be much better when i actually write it
The speakers made that sound. The one where the volume is way too loud, but the music hasn’t kicked in yet.
And then it did.
The opening chords of The Cult’s “Love Removal Machine” punched him in the face.
He turned it up louder.
Thank you, i Tunes.
He had no idea what the fuck the song was about. He never had any idea what the fuck any song was about, really. But removing love seemed like a solid plan.
And the song is kind of kick ass.
He could use some of that.
She described it as a “mutual dissolution of a relationship.”
He described her as a bitch.
He didn’t mean it.
He nodded along with each drum beat.
Today he was throwing open the blinds and letting the sun in.
Screw her, you know?
He had been mourning the unmournworthy for far too long.
And apparently it had led to him making up nonsense words.
He was going to shave. He was going to wear a white t-shirt that was still… white.
He was going to call that pretty girl who slipped him her number a couple of weeks back. The one who laughed a little too loud, took french fries off of his plate, had never heard a Springsteen song, and quoted Family Guy to him.
Maybe there was no rush to call her.
But the other stuff…
Seriously, chick didn’t know Springsteen. Not even after he sang most of “Atlantic City.”
What’s that about?
He jumped in the shower.
He sang “Atlantic City.”
Back in front of the mirror, he took one more look at the beard.
And then he shaved.
He started recognizing himself again.
He could feel a little swagger returning.
Hello, my old friend.
He walked to his closet.
He strutted to his closet.
He picked out the only outfit that he suspected was moderately stylish.
Jeans, button-down shirt, sweater.
He threw them on his bed.
He pulled on his Homer Simpson boxers.
He started singing “Return of the Mack.”
He realized he didn’t know the words to “Return of the Mack.”
He got dressed.
He looked at himself in the full-length mirror.
He did the Billy Idol lipcurlgrowl thing.
He went to his baseball cap shelf.
He spotted it. The perfect colour combination — and broken-in-ness — for the outfit.
He put it on. He looked in the mirror and —
She bought this cap for him.
The only cap she ever bought for him. She said it was kind of a “can’t lick ’em, join ’em” thing. He replied with a “you can lick anything you want, baby” thing. And that somehow worked.
iTunes betrayed him.
Wham’s “Careless Whisper” started.
He had no idea what the fuck the song was about. He never had any idea what the fuck any song was about, really.
He looked back at his bed. It had been his favourite location lo these many months.
He could almost hear a narrator talking about a “turning point.” It sounded a bit like the J. Peterman dude from Seinfeld, for some reason.
No. He was doing this.
He turned and left his house, slamming the door behind him.
Five seconds later, the door opened and he came back in.
He slowly walked over to the shelf, took off her cap and placed it gently back where it belonged.
He took a deep, slow breath.
Then he grabbed an old school Phillies cap and put it on.
As always, he pulled it low over his eyes.
He walked out into the sun.
That Family Guy-quoting broad really has an amazing ass.
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