This very week, back when I was five years old, I had to go into surgery and have my tonsils removed. But I sometimes wonder if the doctor removed my testicles, too. When I look at my taste in music, it looks like the album collection of a 12-year-old girl in 1976. Not to mention, I actually live at the mall. Literally. Every tween girl’s dream. Though my apartment’s above Victoria’s Secret, so I’m also living every teen boy’s dream, as the scenery is prime.
It’s no secret that “Diary” by Bread and “Amanda” by Boston are two of my favorite songs. If it’s a single-title song by a single-word band, chances are I have it. Then you’ve got the Air Supply and Bee Gees also owning lots of space in the collection. I’m lucky I finally reached a point in my mid-twenties where I just owned the fact that I love me some music that won’t win me Headbangers Baller of the Year any time soon.
And while I can quote every line from Roadhouse and Predator, I also watch Before Sunrise and Before Sunset just as many times a year. Have I mentioned that I have an unhealthy, well, love for Love Actually despite the fact that it encompasses every romcom cliche ever, all mixed together in one movie? Or that I maybe can’t change the channel when I come across You’ve Got Mail on television?
I’m glad the Internet makes legal stalking easy, because I need to find out the name of the doctor who removed my tonsils, track him down, and demand he give me my testicles back. Pronto.
Or if he can’t do that, at least to write me a doctor’s excuse for my taste in music.