By popular demand (aka two friends emailing me), here’s Adele walking around Paris singing a song that I always think is a James Blunt song whenever it yodels out of my iTunes. Listening to an Adele song makes me thank Shauna Sand’s exquisite lucite heels that she wasn’t around during my first major-ish relationship when I was 18. The disc changer in my Mitsubishi Mirage would’ve never survived if she was around then. It would’ve been a disgusting display marinated in a gross puddle of sappiness.
Whenever my first boyfriend and I would get into a fight over some stupid shit (examples: Him looking at the waiter at Coco’s for way too long. Him not answering any of my 35 voicemails in a timely manner. A timely manner being 2 seconds after I left it. I don’t care if you’re taking a caca. Cut it short or learn how to push and talk at the same time.), he’d put himself on mute and ignore me for days. This happened almost every week.
Every time he did that, I’d get into my Mitsubishi Mirage and take the pilgrimage (in search of the pathetic me that lounges in the shallow parts of my soul) to his house in the middle of the night. I’d sit in my car and loudly sing along to some easy listening Emo crap while picturing him tapping his peen on the ass cheeks of that skanky, homohome wrecking Coco’s waiter! Sometimes I’d sink down into new levels of teenage desperation by leaving my car to drop a small mound of dirt on his porch. I’d go to Denny’s, eat a plate of fried woe is me and then I’d go back to his porch to see if the mound of dirt I left was disturbed (it never was). Just a mess that nobody should admit.
So I thank Adele for not being around then or my tonsils, my Mitsubishi Mirage and my first boyfriend’s Long Beach neighborhood would’ve all had to enter the Scorned Gay Protection Program.
The me of today watches this video and thinks: “Bitch, just get new dick! Isn’t there a bar around that bridge? Shit.”
The teenage me would’ve called my ex-boyfriend and played this song in its entirety on his voicemail over and over again until his box filled up (throw that image back into the gutter, you sick ho), because it could no longer take the crazy.