emo girl mixtape // 2009

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sad girl playlistThis post is accompanied by this playlist of sad songs that I made when I was heartbroken in 2009. Listen to it as you read along, for the whole experience (and for some throwback emo tunes). If you want more playlists + content like this, be sure to subscribe to my newsletter!

“I hate myself more than I ever led on / I’m burnt out / at 22”

It is 5:00pm– a half hour after I ruined my life. Possibly for good. Definitely for the rest of senior year.

To relieve my pain, I have rolled three of the chairs at my grandma’s house together and I am laying on them like a bed, face down. My earbuds are in and these lyrics blast through, drowning out the noise from the evening news on the television. Typically, I’d be hovering around the kitchen, wondering when dinner would be finished, or getting the plates set out on the table. But today, I don’t feel like doing anything except lying here, listening to this melodramatic song on repeat.

I guess I should stand up, unless I want them to think something’s wrong. I mean, there is. But no one has to know that.

“I’m noooooot ooookay / I’m not okaaayyhaaayyyhayyyyy”

I am now driving back home when I turn this song on. I like it because it reminds me of the stickers from the top of CDs— you know, the ones that keep the case sealed. I collected these, sticking them on he wooden door to my bedroom, like a collage to show the world that, fuck yeah, I own 117 compact discs. And fuck yeah, those are all loaded into my 16gb iPod so I can listen to my non-conformist music whenever I want.

When I visited his house for the first time, I noticed he, too, had a collection of stickers, but on his wooden bed posts. We’re meant to be, I thought. I asked him about it once, and he nodded and smiled. This wasn’t an uncommon reaction from him, as on a good day, he managed to utter three words to me or anyone else.

“And I can’t make it on my own / because my heart is in Ohio / so cut my wrists and black my eyes  / so I can fall asleep tonight, or die”

Whoa now, getting a little dramatic there, aren’t we? Heartbreak sucks, but today– a couple hours after I texted, “I like you” to him, told him not to look at the text until I said he could, and had to painfully pry the head shake “no” out of him when I asked if he “liked me back”– mine is not Hawthorne Heights bad. But I’ll spend a couple more hours being dramatic because it still sucks.

“Stop burning bridges / and drive off of them / so I can forget about you”

I wanted nothing bad to happen to him. On the contrary, it was I who was dumb. I made up signs and symbols that said we were meant to be— like the fact that we both wanted to go into the film industry (In truth, I hadn’t wanted to until I heard that he did). Or that we both liked the same music (I beefed up my The Shins collection and pushed my From First to Last to the bottom of the pile of CDs in my car I left there, hoping he’d see them and want to swap). In doing this like this, I created a fictional narrative, one that could only end badly for me when reality came crashing down.

I can want nothing bad to happen to someone, yet sing along to this song that implies the opposite because I am sad. I am giving myself that.

“If you leave / don’t leave now / please don’t take my heart away”

It’s been 16 hours. I have watched three John Hughes movies + He’s Just That Into You because tbh, I hate myself right now. I feel like Duckie at the end of Pretty in Pink, watching Andie run off with Blane as this song plays in the background. Duckie and I are alike because we kept prodding, even though it was clear our feelings weren’t being reciprocated. But Duckie was smart because he didn’t say, “Did you know that I like you?”  and get a shrug in response. Duckie didn’t say he wanted to make short films in an attempt to get closer to Andie. Duckie got that girl with the puffy sleeves at the end, and I am sitting here with no one; nothing.

I haven’t left that oversized green chair I set up in the middle of my room in hours. I figure if someone asks me what’s wrong, I’ll just pretend I’m asleep. That sounds like a good plan.

“Take the pain out of love / and then love won’t exist / everything we had … is no longer there”

I never liked this song, but it’s starting to grow on me.

“Even if I spend 2004 / listening to Morrissey in my car / I’m better off alone than I would be in your arms”

A couple days have passed. My From First to Last CDs are back at the top of the pile in my trunk. I’ve started to take some of the plastic cases out to make room in my car, and in my heart, which is easier to do now, knowing that I won’t win him over with my impeccable music taste.

I sing along to this song at the top of my lungs. In this moment, it is 2004, and Sonny Moore is my Morrissey. I suddenly feel a little more alive. Better listen to this song 46 more times.

“Swing, swing from the tangles of / my heart is crushed by a former love”

A week later. The songs about death are still in rotation, but less so. I still want to die a little (a lot), but now I know I won’t, unless I get hit by a car or contract ebola, like in that movie with Dustin Hoffman that we had to watch in health class that one time.

I have stopped avoiding the route that leads to his house. I have stopped taking bites of the communal chocolate ice cream straight from the carton because that’s what females are supposed to do when dudes wrong them. I have stopped feeling like my whole world rides on us getting into film school together (spoiler alert: I did, he didn’t), and living happily ever after with two cats and maybe a dog, and probably not a kid.

“Although we’ve come / to the end of the road / still, I can’t let gooooo”

I can actually let go. I am fine. The only person this song reminds me of is Seth Cohen on The OC (That’s a lie, but I’m trying to speak truth into existence). I feel stupid. I feel sad. I feel everything at a time when I want to feel nothing. But I am mending. I am starting to laugh about the whole situation with friends over boba. I am starting to feel like a functioning 17-year-old again, whose only worries should be school and boys– oh, wait. I am starting to make new playlists in iTunes to preoccupy myself when I feel like trash.

I still listen to My Chemical Romance, but because I’m, like, really into horror right now (this will pass), and not because I actually want to die and/or be on the foggy brain meds my favorite bands sing about so often.

I think I’m okay (I promise).




The Time Spent Living With My Significant Other


I did a super smart thing and moved in with my boyfriend after a few months of being together because, well, why not? We knew each others’ last names and middle initials, we never fought over the TV remote (because it’s federal law that it always belongs to me and we always watch Project Runway), and he saw me without makeup at least one and  half times. I don’t even think we discussed it– it just happened. And when it came to moving to a new apartment, I just sort of followed him, hoping he wouldn’t notice the six pillow pets I sneakily tucked into his bed. Absolutely nothing could go wrong!

PLOT TWIST: it’s working out splendidly. He does things I have the ability to do, but would never want to do, and is good for things my other roommates didn’t do, but should have done. Basically, this is a near-perfect living arrangement, and this is why:

1. Home protection. One night, I woke up to pee, and noticed the bathroom door was closed. No one else we knew was in the apartment, and neither of us thought we closed it, so we came to the only valid conclusion we could think of: there was a murderer and he was there to decapitate us one at a time. I feigned bravery and pretended like I was going to risk my life when the boyfriend stopped me, grabbed a pair of scissors, and told me to stay in the room. He then inspected the apartment, scissors at the ready for stabbing fools, and reported back with the verdict. It turns out we both have memories that resemble those of fish, and one of us (not me) idiotically closed the door.

2. Alone time. I’ve always been a lone wolf type, but living in the same room as someone means being around that person practically 24/7. If I want alone time, I have to go into the living room, which means *gasp* not being able to sit around in my underwear with my legs spread wide apart. Luckily for me, as we’ve lived together, I learned that boys like to take their phones into the bathroom with them when they know they’re going to be in there a while (you know, when they’re taking a shit), which makes them stay in there even longer. This gives me 20-30 minutes of “me time” per day, depending on what we eat. I now plan my schedule around his daily trek to the bathroom, and I must say, it’s taught me a great deal about time management.

3. Warmth. I’m naturally a cold person– both emotionally and physically– and he is the exact opposite. He is warm. That is the opposite of cold. I love the fact that I can come in with freezing cold hands, and demand a hug (aka put my hands on his neck to absorb warmth… aka use him as a personal heater that’s only purpose is to provide me with heat). The best part is he only resists most of the time, and I don’t feel guilty at all!

While this all might sound like heaven on earth, there have been a few things a good five-minute discussion and maybe another year or three of dating would have fixed. We haven’t been able to work out some crucial issues such as: 

1. Farting. We haven’t broken the fart barrier yet. Sure, there have been multiple times we’ve farted ourselves awake without the other noticing, but apparently this “doesn’t count” because it’s done unconsciously or something. I’ve definitely come back into the room to discover he’s surrounded by a faint gaseous smell, but he’s denied it every time because he claims he’s “incapable of farting.” It’s turned into this strange game that involves him saying he needs to fart and me pushing on his stomach to force it out, but I’ve had no luck so far. It’s actually quite frustrating.

2. Blankets. We have one blanket that’s definitely big enough for two-to-six people, yet somehow all the laws of blanket-sharing physics go out the window the second we fall asleep. I feel like I’m always pulling it away from him at night as I shiver and risk losing limbs due to frostbite, and rather than be a gentleman about it, he pulls it back with true force. In fact, there was a time when I tried grabbing it, and he semi-unconsciously whined, “But I neeeeeeed this!” He claims he doesn’t remember. I think he’s lying.

3. Masturbation.  I’ve heard that sometimes people get urges to do things, and sometimes these urges can’t be stopped. And sometimes all a person wants to do is go in the other room and do… stuff… alone. “Beat one out,” if you will. And once in a while, someone will come into the room without knocking and find the other person with her eyes closed tight and with one hand down her pants. I’m speaking hypothetically, of course. But to be clear, knocking is a good thing that some people should learn how to do. Especially if their initials are M.B.

But other than that, things are great! I highly suggest moving in with someone you kind of know and like, and have an inkling you’d get along with more than half the time you spend together. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be able to fart freely in front of each other eventually. That’s true cohabitation.