Dear Susan,
I think we’ve known each other long enough that I feel I can be honest; I have beef.
Over the last 7 years, we’ve been through a lot. Between the annual seasonal abuse of Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas, the personalized relationship playlists/subsequent breakup mixes, and your borderline inappropriate fixation on Justin Bieber’s 2013 bad boy sex phase, I’ve been there for you through the thick and thin. If we’re being truly honest, our relationship is pretty one sided and sometimes I’m left wondering what, if anything, I get out of it (other than the $10 a month, that’s still v appreciated).
That’s what makes your betrayal extra bothersome.
Ever since you started getting serious with your new man, you started thinking it’s okay to begin a vinyl collection. For a small fee I give you every song ever made by anyone ever, and you decide to start buying $35 plastic frisbees that you have to get up and flip over every 20 minutes YOURSELF? Every single night I even track the day’s listening patterns to make you the most perfect, meticulously strung together set of playlists made lovingly just for you, and you throw that away and instead use the B side of Ok Computer for your makeout sesh soundtrack. How am I not supposed to take that personally?
Look, I’m all for you finding someone that makes you happy, but honestly? I’m a little worried about you. You’re beginning to change a lot of yourself for this guy you just started seeing, and it’s getting scary. For example, why are you forcing yourself to like Neutral Milk Hotel, a band entirely dedicated to sad boy yodeling? WHY are you allowing a white Echo Park hipster with cuffed jeans and a proud boy haircut make you self-conscious about your music choices? For fuck sake, this is a man who thinks mansplaining Kendrick Lamar’s discography is a personality trait. Between the wearing beanies in the LA summer, the microbrewery visits, and the noise complaints from playing Tame Impala’s Lonerism too loud on your Crossley, stop pretending to be someone you’re not. You’re “not like other girls?” Sis, you are “other girls.”
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I miss the old you; the real you. I miss our Grande/Swift singalongs on aux en route to the bar and playing 90s nostalgia hits while you’re doing your makeup before work. Our girls/genderless iOS application nights-in are some of my favorite memories, and I want them back. I say this with the most love possible, dump him… and the vinyl.
With love,
Your Spotify Account
