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Pitted acne sock
It so happened one day that I bought a CD. The CD was Breach, by the Wallflowers. It so happened on that same day that I was hungry, and miles from home. It so happened, believe you me, that there was a Jack-in-the-Box within sight. I stopped, and it so happened that, as I was delivered my sausage croissant, the song "Mourning Train" began to play.
Now I avoid the disc like the plague. Each time I hear the opening stomps of "Train" -- or, frankly, any other song on the album -- my pores feel greasy and clogged. Each extra pound around my waist becomes ten.
No favorite song is safe. No truly bad song is safe. To this day, on the rare occasion that Neil Diamond's "Coming to America" begins to play, I remember being a small little boy in the bedroom, staring at my ceiling, wishing the DJ would play the song I really wanted to hear (which was usually Ronnie Milsap's perfect "Smoky Mountain Rain" -- maybe I should've been listening to country stations all those nights) before I could go to sleep. When I hear the ecstatic, surging opening notes of Oasis's "Some Might Say" I remember leaving home for the first time, truck stuffed with belongings, the entire Alcan Highway stretching out before me like a pitted acne sock. On that same long drive, my uncle would wake from his copilot slumber frequently to Counting Crows' "Round Here," which he came to refer to as "that stupid naked Jesus song". Ruined one of my favorites. I played it ninety-seven more times.
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