Post-Valentine’s blues got you down?
Pre-Valentine’s blues got you down?
General Valentine’s blues got you down?
Come ride with this giddy bit of musical villainy by Billie Eilish. If it’s good enough to be used in a figure skating routine, it’s good enough to use here. And it is by all accounts and measures good enough.
White shirt now red, my bloody nose
Sleepin’, you’re on your tippy toes
Creepin’ around like no one knows
Think you’re so criminal
Bruises on both my knees for you
Don’t say thank you or please
I do what I want when I’m wanting to
My soul? So cynical
Boy versus girl in the World Series of love, and boy versus boy in the Super Bowl of Glory.
We were all these things, we were all these people, we were all the devil in disguise.
And at the end of every day, we washed all the dirty off.
Or did we?
So you’re a tough guy
Like it really rough guy
Just can’t get enough guy
Chest always so puffed guy
I’m that bad type
Make your mama sad type
Make your girlfriend mad tight
Might seduce your dad type
I’m the bad guy
Duh
Some songs are simply diabolical, bringing out the best of the beast inside of us. They make us lose our sense of… sense. When coupled with the madness of men, what chance did any vestige of innocence ever stand? A slinky baseline, more slinky than any dress you’ve worn, and tighter than any anatomically-contoured crotch-pouch that Andrew Christian could ever come up with… defying you not to move.
I like it when you take control
Even if you know that you don’t
Own me, I’ll let you play the role
I’ll be your animal
My mommy likes to sing along with me
But she won’t sing this song
If she reads all the lyrics
She’ll pity the men I know
Ghosts appear in the dim night shower.
Ghosts of the men I used to be.
Ghosts that creep up behind me
…to thrill, to chill, to kill…
It’s what we used to do. Slaying before it was ever a thing on a Friday night drag show on VH-Fucking-1. Ghosting in a way more real and visceral than your sad cel habits could even approach. You don’t even know what it’s like to want, your little whines will only approximate and echo our feverish desperation. It was literally life or death then.
So you’re a tough guy
Like it really rough guy
Just can’t get enough guy
Chest always so puffed guy
I’m that bad type
Make your mama sad type
Make your girlfriend mad tight
Might seduce your dad type
I’m the bad guy
Duh
A blue-lit shower backed by Billie Eilish, music both mysterious and monstrous, perfect for bending over and getting fucked by memories of nights so dark no starlight could reach them. Not then, not now, not ever. So impenetrably black you cannot see, and what you think your eyes detect is but a tease, a bubble on the tongue.
I like when you get mad
I guess I’m pretty glad that you’re alone
You said she’s scared of me?
I mean, I don’t see what she sees
But maybe it’s ’cause I’m wearing your cologne
And haunting.
Don’t think we cannot thrill anymore, don’t even.
I will take your pop anthems and turn them into trifling playthings, like this post.
Captured. Entranced. Held all the way down, all the way to the end.
The End.
