under the table and hiding.

Pitchfork and I are not friends.  You see, before I got to college, I was convinced I had excellent taste in music and nothing made me happier than spending my weekend crafting the perfect mixtape (yes, an actual cassette mixtape) for my best friend Dee Dee.  As I approached the final months of high school, I was sure the music education I had received from summer camp/my older sister/midwestern boycrushes would be more than sufficient to make me and my overflowing caselogic a smash hit at college.

Unfortunately, my favorite artists were Dave Matthews, Dispatch, and BNL.

Not long after a wildly unfriendly introduction to east coast music snobbery and the embarrassing realization that I had never even heard of the band playing at our fall concert (WILCO), I realized that my taste in music was, in a word, .A W F U L..  Then, like an unnecessary slap in the face, I met Pitchfork.  Yes, this is exactly what my overwhelming state of utter vulnerability and confusion and wtf-am-i-doing-ness needs right now: another person telling me my shared library really need not be shared after all.  Fuck you, Pitchfork.  Leave me alone!  I’m gonna go get some air and when I get back I hope you’re gone.  And dead.

From that semester on, I avoided Pitchfork like it was my douchey freelance job and passive aggressively got mine when I dedicated my AMST 144b photo essay on hipsters to Dave Matthews.  Ooohhhh Zing!

So now I guess it’s been almost 6 years since I first met Pitchfork and while we are definitely not besties sending each other silly texts and homemade mixtapes, I think we could probably hang out at the same mansion/apartment/shack/house party without one of us (me) leaving in tears.

Because we’re all adults now and being way hotter trumps terrible taste in music anyway.