Jul 212010
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I’m an only child. I’m an only child who grew up a military brat. These are pertinent facts to know right now for one major reason:

My stuffed animals must all salute when I enter the room.

They don’t, actually. They totally should but some of them protest with claims that their arms are too short like that’s my problem.

I was alone an awful lot as a kid. The lessons I taught myself growing up stick with me today. I’ve never mastered the art of making good friends quickly, and even now I find it incredibly difficult to truly connect with people. The Internet has, of course, helped a lot in many ways, not the least of which is allowing me to save big time on music purchases.

Do you have any idea how many tape singles I bought back in the day? A lot. We’re talking way more tape singles than any person reasonably needs in their life.

But the greatest thing the Internet has brought to us all is instant access to all kinds of information, from “What is this plant?” to “What is this rash?” We also have access to tidbits of life information that we take for granted as common knowledge. Common to everyone that is except the lonely little military kid moving around every few months with only a few stuffed animals she can’t get to salute for company.

So it was that until I hit my late teens I had no idea how common it was for people to get a song stuck in their head. No, not just “stuck”. “Stuck” is what happens when you’ve screwed the lid just a little too tight on the soda bottle, or when you shove your head through a staircase railing. I’m talking soldered. I’m talking soul-bonded. I’m talking sword? Meet stone.

I thought it was just me that this happened to. I mean my toys never confessed to this problem. Imagine my delight, all those years later, when I realized that not only was my affliction a common one, but that it had a name! “Earworm”, they call it. Ahhh, a name. There’s something comforting about knowing what to call something.

As indicated then, the earworm has afflicted me for just about always. And the guys in my head DJing this party sometimes pick the weirdest shit to put on repeat. A few months back they kept spinning that fucking JG Wentworth commercial for hours at a time.

(Okay so yeah I have little guys in my head who control stuff for me. That’s a story for another time, just go with it.)

Then there’s now.

I don’t know what happened, but something has gone horribly wrong up in the Headland Party because all my little guys have played for almost two solid weeks now is “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga.

Every day.

rah rah ah-ah-ah

All hours.

roma, roma-ma

Two weeks.

ga ga ooh la-la


want your bad romance

How I have not yet killed myself and others in a flame-licked spiral of death and mayhem is a mystery to me.

And it’s not just the song either, it’s one of those super vivid productions (love love love) where all pieces of the instrumentation are playing separately (i want your love) and your brain can zoom in and tune out all other parts to focus on just that one track as it all plays out in unison.

I blame Rock Band for this level of mental detail on the song, incidentally. (you know that i want you)

I’ve tried getting rid of it. I’ve had my iPod playing nearly constantly on all-song-shuffle since Monday in the hopes that something else will catch. (i want your psycho) It almost seems to work too. I mean, The Clash just came on. You’d think if anyone could beat the shit out of Gaga it’d be Joe and the boys, right? And sure enough, as I sing along to Janie Jones, that’s the only song that exists for me right now. But then it ends (oh oh ohh oh ohhhh) and in the second or so of silence (caught in a bad romance) before Dire Straits “Southbound Again” begins (ga ga ooh la la) I hear it out there. Hovering. Patient.

i want your leather-studded kiss in the sand

It knows that soon, the music will stop. It must stop. And in the void, it will return.

i want your love and i want your revenge

This isn’t an earworm. Gaga is the sandworm in the spice-soaked desert that is my brain.

work it move that bitch cah-ray-ze

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