My old friend Brontielle got in touch with me last week wanting to catch up. We were once very close, so I was eager to see her again to make up for lost time. No transgression fell against either party, just the divergent currents of time leading us astray. We met at Dave & Buster’s (naturally). We found that the current iterations of one another had very little in common. She was the creative lead in Snapchat’s filter division, I play ultimate frisbee. She’s a published poet, I vape competitively. She professed her love for horses, I’m afraid of ducks.
The secret ingredient that made folks really taste Irene’s peach cobbler was sneaking in some cherry pits. Could about break your jawbone by accident. The secret of her apple brown Betty was mixing in plenty of sharp slivers of walnut shell.
When you ate her tuna casserole, you didn’t talk or flip through a National Geographic. Your eyes and ears stayed inside your mouth. Your whole world kept inside your mouth, feeling and careful for the little balled-up tinfoils Irene Casey would hide in the tuna parts. A side effect of eating slow was, you naturally, genuinely tasted, and the food tasted better. Could be other ladies were better cooks, but you’d never notice.
(Rant – Chuck Palahniuk)
This should give you a full sense of the way that I am forced to consume all media. Any mention of ducks and I will be sent apoplectically into an anaphylactic bout of terror. As a result I listen to music deeper, better, and just generally closer in every way than any other human being. Does that make me qualified to review music? In no way shape or form. Can I listen to music and report the presence of ducks? Yes, albeit reluctantly.