seperis

The thing that bothers me about assimilation of lyrics without conscious effort is it is inevitable when I start to accidentally sing it, it will be something about oral sex, killing someone just to watch them bleed out, various shades of drug use, suicide, or worst of all, Spanish, which isn't bad in itself when alone (I know enough to pick up the concept of the song, but it can be questionable since I don't know enough to be sure), but a source of endless hilarity to my coworkers when I'm murmuring earnestly about like, love among the banditos or something and apparently my accent is Texas by way of white girl by way of "are you singing about goats? What was that word? Was that even a word?" according to native and fluent speakers. The answer is no, it was not about goats. At least, I hope not. Selena would never betray me like that.

I've talked about how I don't actually consciously, actively know many songs at all; everything I know is by osmosis repeat one on iTunes, and I breathe the words along with it when I'm testing, and if I'm feeling really--we'll call it frustrated?--with the test, the computer, the cubicle, the building, the existence of the universe, it may be slightly louder than breathing. I don't remember otherwise; I couldn't a capella most of it on purpose to save my life. Which I think argues there's a separate storage area in the brain devoted to lyrics memorization, random facts, and in my case, a strange and uncomfortable competence in wirestripping without breaking the copper fibers, and for no reason at all, the ability to recognize any Pride and Prejudice adaptation after three minutes of watching, no matter what part is showing at the time.

Not that I don't value that ability. I'm just saying, what the fuck?

Anyway, singing. I soundtrack my life even if its only in my head; it's just that sometimes, it doesn't stay there. I've come to terms with 1.) I'm bad at singing, 2.) I don't care, and 3.) for the most part, being humiliated when I realize that I'm singing I Touch Myself at the copier just takes up valuable time I could use to type updates into Twitter. Because seriously, when your supervisor comes by your office to query about your loving rendition of bodies like sheep to the rhythm of blahblah go back to sleep (seriously, I don't know the lyrics. Until I start singing them. It's weird.) to your not-starting computer while standing over it holding a letter opener, it's just easier to get everyone so used to it they don't notice anymore.

(That's been in rotation almost three years now and never really gets old.)

Context: my music mix at work usually has a hard beat so I can work in rhythm to it, and because it keeps me awake, and because most of the stuff with a hard beat is fairly violent and I'm in a cubicle, so it seems natural they go together. Most recently, though, I brought my primary home playlists into rotation, because I was on a The Fray kick, and then brought in Adam and Kings of Leon to balance out the mix so it's not primarily A Perfect Circle, Korn, and strangely enough, Britney Spears.

So yesterday I was humming along carrying a box of Harry and David's chocolate cherries to offer people who were unfortunate enough to be stuck at work and probably needed the encouragement to dissuade active suicidal tendencies, and skipping between empty cubicles, I picked up a pen someone dropped and thought about Adam's cane in For Your Entertainment. In my defense, as in there's not one, I was already pissed at him about some scripts I'd written that he'd rejected, so as I hit R's cubicle, I was at full volume telling him I was giving it to him until he was screaming my name instead of being passive-aggressive and thinking it viciously.

(To be fair, Adam's not osmosis lyric learning; it has a hard beat and telling my computer I'm not soft or sweet speeds up load time immensely, so I made the effort to memorize. It's not that I didn't know what I was singing; I just didn't realize I'd increased my volume quite that much when I wasn't sure the aisle was empty.)

I may or may not have pointed the pen at him at the time, but that's best left to history. So as one does, I offered him a chocolate cherry and shimmed back to my cubicle at four-four time and took off my headphones so whoever walked by could sing along, since shame just took a backdoor to the fact I had four more hours at work and there was a better than average chance my feelings about my new relationship with Twitter were starting to unsettle me.

(Protip, R; do not piss off someone working the day before Christmas Eve who rocks six one in her favorite shoes and is taller than you by three inches without them. It's not an accident that I love heels; I know exactly why people react differently when they have to look up at me.)

This is still better than "when I think of you, I touch myself" while staring moodily at a copier, I have to say. It could have been so much worse. It could have been Ben Moody's Everything Burns. Apparently I shouldn't talk about fire at work or something; I'm told it makes people twitchy.

Note: My sister made me listen to the song "Becky" several times by sheer malice. Example of highly involuntary osmosis learning and possibly my sister's idea of hilarious torture. Make. It. Go. Away. Now. Even my slowly degrading standards of public conduct have to draw a line at asking for someone's mouth, and God, I hate that song. And my sister. So. Much.

Context: Lyrics.

This will end well, I think.

Eventually, I should probably wrap the last presents. Maybe.