The first part of 2003 (like January to May) was sort of a formative and strange time for me. I look back at that time as the actual start of my adult life and the early stages of shit getting real. The rest of 2003 falls in line with that description, but in order to write about it I’d need a bottle of vodka, a straw, and someone who takes dictation and understands slurring. Because I have a desire to keep bystanders out of my personal crossfire, all I can really say is that there was a lot going on during my last semester of college (and yes, if you’re wondering, if I knew you then, you’re probably being referred to in the most general and indirect way possible, but don’t worry, it’s not about you, really). And today, while I was driving home from my Ikea bookshelf buying adventure, the radio jolted me to exactly seven years ago.
But before I go on, I should mention that my musical tastes are, as they say, eclectic, and in some instances, saying I have so-so taste is putting it mildly. Though I do like good stuff. I’m just drawn to easy marks.
Anyway, if you were one of those people who I knew in 2003 and you visited my apartment, then you were probably in listening distance of the CD I was writing to. (Side note: I used to be a really adorable English major. Then I went to grad school, developed intolerances for phrases other than “outside the box,” and stopped worrying so much about setting up ideal writing conditions.) But, as you may or may not know I’m not big on playing music for others. (See above discussion of personal awareness of taste for further explanation.) And I especially wouldn’t have been during my Dashboard Confessional writing music stage, which I think I might be more embarrassed of than my James Taylor writing stage*.
So, why discuss this now? Well, today I think I finally learned that you really can’t escape your past. Especially when you’re on the Northeast Extension of the PA Turnpike singing your heart out to this: