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.