Allow me to take a few minutes to rhapsodise about Damien Rice.

Yes, I'm well aware how very late I am to this realization, but Damien Rice writes amazing songs.

We might make out when nobody's there

It's not that we're scared

It's just that it's delicate

So why do you fill my sorrow

With the words you've borrowed

From the only place you've known

And why do you sing Hallelujah

If it means nothing to you

Why do you sing with me at all?

So, it is entirely possible that I just have a very generic and predictable life, and it is entirely possible that the phrases were just general enough that almost anything could be read into them, but I spent around seven hours last night immersing myself in these songs and I found myself pleasantly surprised by how very appropriate some of the lyrics seemed to be to my immediate situation. 'Hey!' says I, 'I know what that's like!' We bonded, Damien and I. I swear. It was magical. 

And what I am to you
Is not real

And what I am to you

You do not need

And what I am to you

Is not what you mean to me

You give me miles and miles of mountains

And I ask for the sea

I'm unsure how to react to this chorus, other than to say: yes. This, exactly. Phrasing so perfect, I can barely handle it.

I came.

Just trust me, I didn't know whether I was grinning or crying the first time I heard it. That's how unexpectedly accurate it was.

Now, I don't want to be one of those stupid fucks who are so insistent in their fangirl/boying that they end up issuing a ridiculous and completely untrue ultimatum like "if you don't ___ this ___, you are [insert bad thing]", but if you don't get that this song is beautiful, you don't have a soul.

Allow me to introduce you to this glorious song.

Step 1: Press play.
Step 2: Bask/sob/dance/masturbate/sing/write a novel inspired by the lyrics.
Step 3: Repeat.

On people with opinions they really haven't thought about at all.

I can't help but laugh at people who seem convinced that music from the 90s, 80s, 70s, 60s, 50s...well, okay, anything that wasn't released in the last decade, is automatically the pinnacle of musicianship, and all modern music "sounds the same" and "isn't up to the same standard".

Come on now. You'd have to be really, really stupid not to realize that the only reason you know those songs you adore from your parents' era is because they were the absolute best the period had to offer. As shocking as it may seem, music back then was generally pretty cookie-cutter, mass-produced, unremarkable or straight up irritating -- all the things these morons like to whine about in Youtube comments. (By the way -- is there a reason stupid people are completely obsessed with Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber? It's like they can't go five seconds on any music video without Christ compelling them to type out something along the lines of "THUMBS UP IF THIS IS BETTER THAN LADY GAGA" or "SO MUCH BETTER THAN JUSTIN BIEBER").

Now, I know Youtube comments are hardly a good place to find an outstanding sample of humanity, but I think they offer an insight -- of dubious value, admittedly -- into the mind of the average, not-too-smart, completely uninformed citizen of the Western world. And according to this proverbial citizen -- who was probably dropped on their head as a baby...repeatedly -- music has mysteriously gotten awful over the last ten years. Because that makes sense.

So please, dumbasses of the internet, I know you love Nirvana with all your alternative little heart, but the next time you feel like blaring your nonsensical opinion that "MUSIC THESE DAYS IS SHIT, KURT WROTE SONGS THAT WERE SO REAL, FUCK OFF JUSTIN BIEBER/LADY GAGA", don't. Just...don't.

All Is Violent, All Is Bright

Sometimes you just have one of those days where everything seems solemn and sort of heavy, even if it's completely irrational. In my case, predictably, this is almost always triggered by some minor love-life-related incident. On the upside, in my 20 years on this planet I have managed to gain the perspective necessary to see minor love-life-related incidents as exactly that - minor - and I find it best to pass the moods with sympathetic music.

In a side note - and this is going to sound spoilt and bitchy but fuck it - it is annoying as hell to be followed around and stared at and complimented and all manner of other usually good things when it's in the context of someone being obviously interested in fucking or dating you, or both, and you would rather grow old and die completely alone than devote one more second of your time to even considering such an unappealing idea.

I don't even care, you bitches know I'm right. It is awkward and uncomfortable and you don't want to be mean about it but if they don't take the hint and quit humping your leg you're going to have to pull out the bitchface and that's a generally unpleasant prospect. If you're disagreeing, that's because you've never had it happen to you, and on that note, you should count your blessings.

Conversely, if you have had the displeasure of experiencing intense unwanted affection, it makes you hyper-aware of any time when you are interested in someone and you're not sure if said interest is returned. At least, that's how it works for me. I am suddenly very aware that there is a pretty good chance that any overt gestures are going to result in quiet but unmitigated irritation.

Or this.

I have yet to come up with a suitably subtle solution to this problem - because sometimes, just busting out with 'So, let's have sex!' doesn't seem to be the best option, and most people I know are too nice to snap out an unequivocal 'Look, I'm not interested.' I'm working on it, but until I find the answer, I think I'm going to have to stick to dear friends with Mogwai DVDs.

Today has been all about music; with a little luck the night will continue in the same theme.

Today I tidied my room and listened to these songs in a sort of endless cycle:

With the occasional bout of this:

and this:

and this:

Basically I am hoping to continue the night in much the same fashion, with plenty of this:

On hilariously anti-climactic overhyped pop singles.

Gaga?
Gaga?
What is this shit?
Come on now. I'm not even a hater. In fact I love some Gaga with cocktails and an excess of makeup.
Don't get me wrong; I find plenty of her fans obnoxious, her more vocal haters even more so, and I find that 'monster' stuff generates a fair amount of second-hand embarrassment. I can't sit through interviews with her without concluding that she has absolutely no idea what she's talking about/is trying too damn hard to be a visionary, enlightened leader.

All of that aside, she tends to make good pop music, and pop is one of my all-time favourite genres. It's happy music. Don't give me shit about disliking your 20-minute epics about slaying dragons or worshiping the Beast or whatever the fuck it is, and then turn around like "Oh I can't stand happy music!" Why? Does it make you awkward to be flippant and joyous? Telling.
Anyway.

This song is not good. It's not exactly awful, but for something that's been so hyped...it should have been far, far better than this. I am disappointed, Gaga. I'll just be over here, listening to The Fame Monster and side-eyeing this single. Give me an album on which I can consider this The Track I Always Skip, and things will be cool between us, okay? I still love you.

On post-rock and days in limbo.

I am in that place between ventures which is simultaneously relaxed and uncomfortable - or maybe uncomfortable because of all the relaxation - there always seems to be something amiss when you're not active. It's a little like being the only person who doesn't have a worried look on their face; it means you've probably missed something, and you're going to feel very silly when the penny drops.

At any rate, I've been passing the unseasonably rain-drenched days tucked away in my room, obsessively building a collection of post-rock, a genre I have basically ignored up until now. On a not-so-special night last week, I realized I had been listening to Explosions In The Sky for three hours straight. I have not looked back and it has been excellent.

Liking early Regina Spektor and needing a whole lot more Doctor Who in my life.

I had somehow managed to forget how much I love Regina Spektor's earlier, rougher, freer songs.

Thirty-two is still a goddamn number
Thirty-two still counts

Brilliant. Alright, indie and pretentious, but brilliant nonetheless.

Over the last few days I have, with the mystical powers of Youtube and the internet in general, been giving myself a crash course on the most recent episodes of Doctor Who. For years I had allowed the painfully cheesy low-budget effects and patently ridiculous plots put me off what is actually a very enjoyable show, as it turns out.

Tardy to the party? Well, slightly. But I am making a heartfelt attempt to make up for that! I'm fascinated by its ability to override my rationality and convince me that even though it's blatantly trying to turn "I wear a ____ now. ____s are cool." into a much-loved, oft-quoted catchphrase, I still buy it. I'm sitting there with one half of my brain facepalming and telling me, "That is so fucking lame," and the other half squeeing and shrieking like a deranged fangirl, "Bowties are cool!" Oddly confusing, but I applaud Matt Smith for making it work, because really.