tesslynch:

just an old sweet song

This song is one of those songs that makes you me stop and think, What have I been doing with my life, what ill-conceived lifepath have I constructed that has led me so far from listening to this song and slow dancing in the dark and crying and believing in shit like this okay I’ll say it: (in nested paragraphs (it’s easier this way [love]))?

HOW DID MY LIFE COME TO THIS? WHO LET ME GET HERE? HOW HAVE I NOT KEPT GEORGIA ON MY MIND?!

designage:

trick daddy f. cee-lo and big boi / in da wind

(there is a large and special place in my heart for dirty southern rap, and trick daddy is the mayor of that town. i mean, trick luh the kidz.)

Sometimes I wonder where all of my dirty southern rap passion has gone to. How does it reveal itself in my daily life? In what small ways does it emerge, after all of these years living in a city where dancing means doing a line off the back of a toilet and bouncing around like a madman on the dancefloor, if you’re lucky.

Where I come from (and I know Kelsey knows what I’m talking about), if a song like this came on at a bar, even the shyest, whitest, most uptight of girls would Rocket Dog their way to the dance floor in their Abercrombie and Fitch frayed-edge jean skirts, screaming and tucking their boobs deeper into their bras so that they wouldn’t fall straight fucking out once they got going on the downbeat. We’d all raise our hands in the air, chug the rest of our drink before slamming it onto the bar,  flip our Sun-In-ed hair, raise our overplucked eyebrows, and, eyelinered within an inch of our lives, grind our toned and tanned and g-stringed tight little virginity-pledged and True Love Waiting asses STRAIGHT INTO THE MOTHERFUCKING GROUND.

There was floor-slapping, there was humping of the ground, there was configuring of booty trains and removing of clothing while Mormons and Catholics and Baptists alike, sworn to purity and chastity and whatever else it was that meant you weren’t supposed to do anything that was any fucking fun unless it meant coming dangerously close to having your first orgasm during the Booty Break at the local linedancing saloon. (100% true and 100% how I spent every Friday night of every summer home from college).

And I guess what I don’t understand is, how do you know how to fuck if you didn’t spend every weekend night of your adolescence practicing it on the dancefloor (and then, let’s be honest, parlay it into a premature marriage because you couldn’t keep your hands out of each others pants long enough to make it to Youth Group on time and with a good conscience)?