One day there’ll be someone who’ll talk to you until you fall asleep; and then wake up in the gray predawn together, overflowing with all the stories you’ve collected while you were gone, while you were far away and dreaming.
Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Let Gaga Be Great
1.Denial- This isn’t happening. She’s not real. “Just Dance” has to be a forgery. She has to be sampling. Oh, I know, this is a cover. No? It’s all her? She writes her own songs? Plays the piano? Actually sings? I refuse to believe this. Believing this would mean believing some girl in her early twenties isn’t your run-of-the-mill Piano Princess, and understands the dynamics of pop music well enough to compose an iconic first hit. Denial is the only option at this phase.
2. Bargaining - In addition to “Just Dance,” I’m just going to like “Papparazzi,” but that’s it! I refuse to be a predictable consumer of pop music. I refuse to like all of her radio singles. There’s no denying the girl is good, but she’s not that good. Wait. Her part in Wale’s “Chillin” is pretty decent. “Poker Face” is growing on me. Okay, pop music puppeteers, I’ll like “Chillin” in exchange for liking “Poker Face,” but I refuse to submit to the rest of Gaga. Never.
3. Contempt - I’m beginning to think this bitch killed Michael Jackson…and look at her…standing up for civil rights, and stuff, who does she think she is? How uppity. Does she think she’s, like, important? Well, she’s not. She’s still just a Pop Princess. She still makes soulless pop music that will mean nothing in a couple of years. She’s not great.
4. Acceptance - Lady Gaga is alright. Not a fan or a hater, just an observer- an observer that’s very doubtful of whether she’ll ever produce anything better, or as good as her debut.
5. Obsession - FAME MONSTER leaks. Holy shit. I think the Universe’s water just broke. Birth of a motherfucking icon. I love this woman. I want to be this woman. I want to go to war for this woman. I want to buy her merchandise, and wait up at odd hours of the night to see her live. There is nothing holy in this world, or as sacred as Gaga. Oh hey, shrine. So I have a shrine in my closet of Lady Gaga? This woman is amazing. I’m going to liveblog my reactions to everything she ever does. I want to meet her. I wonder if she has a secret tumblr I don’t know about.
“People don’t want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unknown.”—Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk (via ignify)
GRAGH, it kills my soul just a little bit to bend to the aesthetic judgment of people whose charmingly utilitarian understanding of color and composition nevertheless trumps my (one would think) slightly more experienced sensibilities in these areas. I guess it’s good to learn that now—that clients are going to make you cringe and shrivel up inside with the things they want you to do. Hey, newsflash: with these colors, this adoption brochure is not going to look “comforting” or “safe” or “soft”—it’s going to look just like the baby barf you’re going to be cleaning up when you adopt these babies. How’s that for honest advertising.
I don’t know how to salvage this for my portfolio with these horrifying colors. How can I tell them nicely that I abhor these colors and that the brochure does not necessarily have to match their eye-gouging website design?
eta: I have a suspicion that despite the verbal petting, all they wanted was a monkey who has the programs and a “designer” affiliation to make a brain-dead brochure that communicates nothing of the list of compassionate adjectives they gave me at the get-go. I mean, WHY. Why even tell me that in the first place?
It’s a really weird thing, talking with people you don’t know very well or at all. I imagine it like you’re having a conversation in different rooms of a house. It’s a curious, superficial, glancing sort of exchange—it’s so terribly innocuous and restrained. Maybe it’s a sign I’m not very good at it, because sometimes when I’ve put sufficient distance between us, I realize that I don’t know who they are at all, even if I’ve spent months with them. At least, not in regards to the important things, like what makes them happy or what movie made them laugh until they cried (or cried until they laughed).
Though to be fair, I don’t know that about a lot of people. Which is another part of it, because it’s so hard to really know anyone, even people whom you’ve known all your life. Except, it seems to me that the more you know someone, the more easily you’re pissed off at them or think you hate them. It’s kind of funny; maybe to really love someone you have to really hate them also, to a certain degree.
Lately I’ve been thinking about how I’d like to talk to this teacher I had in high school, how I’d like to tell her all my fucked up confessions and ask her if she’s felt that way before. I don’t know. I suppose barely know her, in the end, but I want to tell someone things, and I know that it’d be safe with her. Maybe I’m expecting too much out of people.