My life is a playlist.
I think everyone’s life is a playlist. I just tend to be more vocal about it. There are moments, at least three times a day, where I have an immediate, and necessary need to play certain songs. I become hell bent on finding the needed song, and every other project around me comes to a halt. It’s a big part of the reason I become uncomfortable in office jobs. I’m unable to vary whatever play list is piped through the walls.
I am one of those girls. The ones that have the ability to morph any song to apply to their life. Or find themselves in any lyric. I’ve traced my history in music.
The Killers helped me through a break up. Rupa and the April Fishes took me home from the hospital after watching a loved one die. My Chemical Romance announced my arrival in Boston and my first stumbling step as an adult. And Blink-182, well, they held me together during high school nights.
Sometimes I get a little embarrassed when others look through my iPod or playlists. My musical tastes run the gammut. I have no discernible limits. I can’t make you understand that Britney Spears is essential to writing term papers, or that I can’t do the dishes without Gorillaz. The Decemberists can either ruin or make my day, depending on which one I need them to do.
I don’t know what good music is. I know what my music is. I know how to start a dance party in a shop in SOHO. I can manipulate the jukebox in a dive bar to make a hipster smile. Most importantly, I know how self-sooth my own ragged edges. Some girls can’t face the day without that extra hour to finish their hair and make up. I can’t drive to work unless I’ve brought the right notes into my head that I can hum all day.
I don’t need anyone else to like this playlist. I just need to keep living moments that require musical accompaniment.