Paramore – “The Only Exception”

Excuse the sappy song selection.

It all started because of this Thought Catalog article, and it’s just spiraled from there.

I first listened to this song… actually, I don’t remember why, but I do remember that my friend Danielle, with whom I share very few music overlaps because she skews mainstream and I skew, well, not mainstream, but whatever, when Danielle found out I liked this song she made the :3 face and said “Awww, I love that song!”, and that’s when I knew that this song was the kind of song that dooms people to years of pining away over unattainable crushes with attractive laughs and kind eyes.

I’m not belittling her taste. It’s more like, she loves the easy romance in songs like this one, and let’s be real, if you’re crushing on someone, this is the kind of song that makes you think about what could be, about the future that is written in the stars but has not come into fruition for whatever reason, and sweet jesus I can already tell that this is the kind of post that’ll make me cringe in the morning (actually, that’s every post), but whatever, I should be writing my cinema final paper but instead I’m listening to “The Only Exception” on repeat and

my heart sinks like an anchor dropping into the abyss.

It shouldn’t be this hard. It shouldn’t be this easy either, but then where do these definitions come from, from what am I hiding, or running, or whatever, and it’s difficult to delineate my feelings about anything right now because I’m in the middle of finals and who am I kidding, there are other thoughts that should be occupying the neurons firing in my gray matter, and should I spell it “gray” or “grey” and I usually spell it “gray” but Tolkien wrote it as “Gandalf the Grey” so maybe that should be the spelling I use from now on, eh?

Speaking of Tolkien, I watched “The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey” this past Friday morning (midnight premiere fun times), and that was… something unto itself. It’s pretty obvious where Jackson was stretching material to fill in time, but the fact that the team behind the to-be trilogy is taking the time to fill out Tolkien’s universe horizontally is a testament to the strength of the material. And of course, Bilbo is my crack spirit guide because his deadly sin, like mine, is derp, except unlike me, he can overcome his tentative nature and his natural wit and spirit bring him success and admiration.

It helps that Martin Freeman, playing Bilbo, is so cute. He’s apparently… a problematic person in real life, but as an actor, Bilbo and John Watson, man.

Which brings me to Sherlock. I can’t wait for Benedict Cumberbatch’s turn in the upcoming “Star Trek: Into Darkness,” because I mean, just look at this super sexy promo (also, Chris Pine as Kirk mmm hello):

But it’s the dynamic between Sherlock and Watson in BBC’s “Sherlock,” the connection between Cumberbatch and Freeman, that makes the British version of the duo (no offense to Downey Jr./Law or Miller/Liu) the best modern iteration so far. Their friendship goes beyond normal trust boundaries, and while it might be tempting to read the push and pull of their relationship as sexual, I don’t see it as a physical attraction, but more a mental need—they check each other, they each can’t really function without the other, at least not in the way that they do when they are with each other, and it just works. Of course I have a soft spot for Watson, the ex-soldier with the good heart and the permanent confusion and the determination to work through to the good in Sherlock, this troubled man with a universe unto himself collapsed into his still-human mind, and

well.

This post has evolved a lot from where it started.

And goddammit, it’s because of this song, and because I’ve probably played it through at least 10 times since I started writing this entry, and wow, that’s a lot of time that I could’ve spent writing about cable television and racial representations but instead I’m trying to quash the undeterminable something that plagues me when it’s late at night and I’m listening to emotionally charged music through the headphones with the fucked up cord and there’s a patch of skin on my right hand that’s so dried out that it’s started bleeding, and I tried to put my roommate’s coconut oil on it in a last ditch attempt to saturate it with moisture but it didn’t work and now there’s this red scaly blotch on my hand

and I feel like crying because of all the terrible things that have happened in the world in the past couple of days, and I think about all the tiny coffins that are making their way into the earth back east in Connecticut, and then I remember that this closeness with death is something that a lot of people feel every second of their lives, so why should I cry when I have nothing to worry about at all

and then I think about last night, the way my friend Megan was so brave to step up to the bat and ask, straightforwardly and with no pretentions, for what she wanted, and she got it, and I tried to do the same thing and things petered out and now I close my eyes and try to forget forget forget,

for getting what I wanted was never an option, and who was I kidding when I took that last breath of uncertainty and clicked “send.”

It’s good for me that I did it, and now that I know, I do feel better, and things aren’t awkward for me because I’ve been sleeping in until 2 p.m. every day, and all I really want is to know that I am done, done with this crapshoot of a semester. I feel stretched, like, as Bilbo says in “Fellowship,” “butter scraped over too much bread,” and it has nothing to do with the fact that this semester was band, was working a job and an internship, was turning everything in at the last possible deadline, was late nights spent whittling away at the intricacies of the world with good friends, was the certainty of existence that soothed me before I’d drift away to sleep in the brittle quiet of the hours before the autumn dawn

and now it’s winter, and the year is almost ending, and I look toward spring with hopeful eyes but of course, this is the same as it’s always been, or at least been for the past couple of years, and I could be content with the knowledge that there is nothing impossible about the challenges that are coming my way.

And yet I curl up into my pillows when I sleep, clutching onto the garishly-patterned plush fish that I got from a former friend back when I was 7 years old, and imagine something

easier.

I suppose I’ll figure it out when I get there, eh.

(Image: Untitled by Christoph Martin Cirillo)

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