How Music is Ruining My Life

So lately I've been really into music (shut up, indie friends). I know most people at least say they're into music in general, but I, on the other hand, go through phases where I need to be listening to music constantly, phases that are sprinkled in across a pretty apathetic musical spectrum.
But the main problem is that I have exceptionally broad musical taste, i.e. my latest playlist features, among many others, Atmosphere, Sum 41, Blackstreet, Andrea Bocelli, Bad Brains, and the Original Broadway Cast of Gypsy.
Maybe it's weird, but if I'm happy, who cares, right?! Wrong. So wrong.

When I'm walking to class I, like many others, usually slip into autopilot mode, and the music that's playing on my iPod very evidently shapes my attitude, which, in turn, affects the way I operate within the world around me. This includes the way I carry myself in general, as well as how I interact with the people I meet along my way (aka bumped in my friend Anna, who is probably the sweetest looking creature on Earth, while listening to "I'd Rather Get Some Head" and felt so weird that I very blatantly avoided her).

See, now the problem really comes down to the fact that I often resurface from autopilot and think that I'm probably looking cool when I'm listening to something like DMX or Rage Against the Machine.

The thing is, I never look the way I think I do, especially when I think I look cool.

Every time in recent memory that a thought to the effect of "I bet I look cool right now" has entered my head, I know that I am completely screwed.
Why, you ask? Well, you see, photo evidence has made it painfully clear that whenever I think I look cool or attractive, I could not be more wrong.

Example 1:

The first time Shads and I bought a cigar, I thought "damn, two ladies smokin' a cigar, this is obviously hot."

Alas...

What I'd imagined:

"That's gonna be me. Sans hat though...not on that Jason Mraz shit."

My sad fuckin reality:


Example 2:

This summer Shadee, Courtlan, and I went up to Sacramento to stay with our friends Sheila and Shahriar, who we realize upon arrival are probably way out of our social league. But seeing as how they hadn't seemed to realize this yet, one day we were on their boat with possibly the sexiest group of people I've ever met, let alone spent a day sunburning in front of, and I distinctly remember feeling cooler and cooler as the day went on, as if their perfectly tanning complexions were suddenly my own and my hair was drying perfectly instead of like a ball fro.

Then, THEN, I see the photos. What I thought were going to be cherished proof that I was cool only confirmed that I'm a huge joke.


Look at my face. It's SO obvious I'm thinking "I'm cool AND hot."

Not to mention I'm like four feet from a Persian prince I only want to float away on the tube with, and of course with my artificial ego boost I'm undoubtedly staring suggestively at him making that fucking scary face.

Example 3:

Dancing.

This is the most relevant case related to my current anxiety. Though I do my best to shy away from cameras while jazz squaring, or whatever the fuck I'm attempting while dancing, various pictures have emerged over the years that showcase, once again, my painful reality.

First, let me explain what I always perceived my role on the dance floor to be. I usually silly dance because I'm like, "Alright, FINE, I guess I'll take it upon myself to lighten the mood and improve everyone's dance experience, IF I MUST (note: no one actually gives a shit, I'm just insecure)." And until recently I always assumed that I was being that funny/cool girl...

Nope.

Exhibit A, at a concert:

What...what the fuck is this? This is not a dance move, and is also why I'm single I think. I'm not even facing the same direction as the crowd.

Exhibit B, at a dinner/dance:
Readers, this is a photo I desperately untagged myself in multiple times, but it's just something you have to see in order to truly understand. I'm sorry.

She's a maaaaaniac, maaaaaaniac on the floor! ...heh. Anyone?

Shit.



Don't worry, that's the end of it, and here's the point:
Basically, as you can see, it's safe for me to assume that when I'm imagining myself swaggering charmingly to the beat of a song I think is badass, I am more than likely just flexing my neck and shooting the stink eye at people I know and love.
So if you see me on campus looking peculiar, please, for both our sakes, rip out my damn headphones.