Enough is never enough. Too much of a bad thing is definitely good. Girl Talk makes my ears pull my smile wide, the corners of my mouth piercing my earlobes, mouth as open as possible so that it can swallow as much of the spicy splice music as possible. The blunt and cumbersome excuse for lyrics, “Wait’ll you see my dick,” rittles the majestic wings of a string section not even with something not even as merciful as bullets, but something like crowbars being shot out of cannons. I wait for what Girl Talk might think of next, what song is next to be subjected to gladiatorial manslaughter, and I hope its something that I know is silly and almost stupid so the song can be taken advantage of in this arena of music where all of the combating Top 40 hits are still climbing to the top, trying to prove all of the rest of the songs just as ridiculous as they themselves are. I wait anxiously to see all of my hates get the torture they deserve, but instead of something stupid being thrown into the lion’s den, something worthy of being torn to pieces, it is something else. A certain something I once saw as excellent has no mercy shown upon it and is left to the barbarous and unsophisticated amalgamation of drum machines and curse words. As the excellent song is torn apart and placed in absurd postures in the arena, just for added humiliation, I see that it is nothing sacred, that all of the warriors are just music, just a series of beats in different positions, and laugh at how the idea of music has had the wool pulled over everyone’s eyes, that nothing is better or different, because when any song is torn apart, it still bleeds. The album ends, and I leave the arena, wanting more of this gore.
I return the next day, blood stained ground greasing my entrance into the Coliseum so much that I can barely slow down, heading straight on into the violence. I wait to see the joke of music performed again with a punch line just as punchy and affecting, an absurdity so relevant that it makes me laugh at life and feel empowered by doing so, but all of my leaning forward in anticipation only pulls my ass out of the chair, making me face fault. I sit myself back up, wondering if I am missed something. How come I wasn’t getting the joke? Why wasn’t I laughing? Now I watched as all of the music battled each other, and instead of being moved, either in enjoyment or in horror, I was static, blood glazing over my eyes without me even so much as blinking. I was immune to it. The unhesitating readiness to explore the most morbid parts of humanity showed me that there was nothing unique, nothing special, and that all could be torn apart, and I would stay watching. I saw this in me, this refusal to see any of the goodness I once saw in people, in music, and I got up from my seat. My bloodlust, my desire for all of the most carnal parts of music depreciated my appreciation to nothing, and I was no longer human. I must retreat, cocoon myself and let me remember all of the good, let it grow until it makes me something better than I am now.