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And of course Anne Hathaway like many accomplished, micro analyzed media whores on the planet manages to once again give our lives much meaning again, with the help of course of your ever ready friendly scumbag trigger happy paparazzo….
I am going to burger king to get my favorite sandwich.Original chicken sandwich with bacon and cheese.
I am going to get my favorite sandwich.Grilled chicken sandwich with bacon,russian and american cheese. I don’t see much difference here than showing it off with nude scenes on the bigscreen? I will immediately grab your rss feed as I can’t in finding your e-mail subscription link or e-newsletter service. Neither the service provider nor the domain owner maintain any relationship with the advertisers. Everything about her is conjured, but in such a hyperbolically feminine way that I can’t help but exhale with my own lip-biting fantasizing. In case of trademark issues please contact the domain owner directly (contact information can be found in whois). You put on an album just to sample it per a friend’s recommendation or to hear what the buzz is about, and then one simple lyric colors your entire relationship with the album. Sparks are sparked, choices are chosen, moves are made, and the radio drops its pathetic EDM mix in its thrall to the pathetic fallacy, and what you hear is perfect and fitting, your immediate soundtrack and your future song. The problem with stories like this is that the music in question becomes nothing more than an inanimate prop. Saying that Sigur Ros was playing during a first kiss is not too different, in the mind of someone whose experience of Sigur Ros doesn’t go far beyond what was overheard during a hazy night or two of bad psuedo-philosophical conversation, than saying than that it happened on a Wednesday, or while standing on a carpeted floor. When an artist puts personal feelings into a piece of work that precisely mirror your own, and then that art intersects with your life, an unbreakable sense of connection forms.
Too often, calling music a soundtrack to experience reduces it to a level beneath the experience itself, failing to acknowledge the central importance of the music to the action, to the emotion, to whatever else makes up the impression of a moment. Within five minutes of Born to Die, drugs are shared, bikinis tossed and loins left a-burning. And through that one line, that simple connection specifically relevant to my life, I tailored each song to my own experience, and the album morphed into my musical diary for 2012.This past year was the worst of my life. You can kiss someone once then stuff yourself with love songs, and it’s as good as ten more encounters.


But of course I’m going to say something like that, because at the time my wife and I were getting to know each other, we were very, very serious about dance parties. You can leave someone, or be left, and be fine, then drag yourself down the sluice pipes with just a few minor chords. These were the sorts of parties where the combination of songs, personalities and alcohols turned strangers into friends, friends into lovers, clueless kids into slightly less clueless kids. If you know the song’s lyrics by heart (or are reading along) you can still make them out in his singing here, barely. I love Lana’s conscious dips into idiotic Betty Boopisms and non-existent vocabulary, extracting what little soul can be found in vapidity. By the time Some Nights hit the charts, I had lost myself in a pit of despair—the sort of despair you hit after 14 months of unemployment. The months, weeks, days and hours put into researching, networking and tailoring resumes and cover letters seemed useless. This year I dwelled on everything, questioning all past decisions, current plans, future hopes. The wedding was something of a production, but all the preparations seemed to proceed so naturally that there was no need for any sort of emotional meltdown, no undue stress. It was still a wedding, though, with events occurring at multiple locations, over 100 family members and friends to manage, and many details left to be decided at the last possible minute. And during the moments that she occupies the space in my head, I, too, am a sorceress.Kasia Galazka is a writer in New York City.
Back in 2009, a minor quarter-life crisis spurred me to climb out of a rut, take action and apply for graduate school so that I could make the life I wanted. I had enlisted friends to serve as our wedding band, but expected them to only prepare a little over an hour of music, so it was on me to fill the gaps in an evening of music that I hoped would approach some of the same highs the parties of our college years had reached. I started to doubt it all—everything I had worked for, everything I had always wanted, everything I stood for, everything I thought was important to me.
It’s perhaps too short, not fully realized, with the opening simultaneously too long and too short, out of proportion to the meat of the song, which develops only slightly once the drums kick in, failing to reach either a hypnotic stasis or an emotional build and release. I want to be 40 years old and enter a work meeting with a guttural Bob Mould yell, just so the attendees know where I’m coming from. Like most Royksopp songs, though, it rubs shoulders with perfection, such that when it’s playing you give in entirely to the perfectly attuned but slightly cheeseball sounds, and the goofily skewed English by way of Norwegian lyrics.
I want to call the cable company and tell them the internet is down (again) the way 1984 Bob Mould would.
I was in love, I was ready for the world without having any idea how to find my place in it or what sort of skills my liberal arts education might leave me with, and I had found truth in the beauty and of the mundane day to day life.


Full, hot tears, and desperately unromantic, clumsy weepy noises, expressing resplendent feelings of relief and joyful resignation.
When I needed to forget it all, I played the album and let the pop saturate my veins with positivity. Nothing made me feel better than sitting outside under the warm sun blasting the buoyant music, tapping my feet to the fast tempos and bass beats, and humming along to the catchy melodies and hooks. The earnest, powerful delivery of the words and the theatrical, bombastic sounds worked as a thousand hands reaching to help me crawl out of the pit. It is entirely possible, perhaps even acceptable, to indulge in some secondhand romantic reverie over a KC and JoJo ballad.
It was 15 minutes to not think about anything and to just enjoy the music.Some Nights effortlessly moves across a range of emotions and speaks to the complexities of my life in 2012. But inside my mind it was a bedlam of activity—constantly fighting for space to be sad, to be angry, to be motivated, to be excited about the future, to be nostalgic for the past.
My mood was in constant chaos, changing from one minute to the next.The opener on Some Nights illustrates some of this mayhem. You are remembering the ’90s, which in your recollection took place entirely en boudoir.
It’s a mini-pop-opera that sounds like an eerie Jack-in-the-Box slowly winding up in the first few notes. Ruess sings of someone hanging on to the past, worried about what he’s changing into, expecting catastrophe in the future and expressing bitterness in the present. As the music and the dissonant sounds of screams, gunshots and broadcasts grow louder in the background, he confesses he’s going crazy. He won one game, I won one somehow, and each subsequent meeting was predicated (at first, at least nominally) on breaking that tie, a thing we never got around to. In my more anxious moments I suspected they were only predicated on breaking that tie, making me essentially Scheherazade. Nor are these songs for playing it cool, threading the needle between attraction and disinterest the way women are taught they must. It would be just another thing to regret in the cab home, or weeks later thinking he thought the worst of me.



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