Okay, so you know the old archetype of the artist and his muse? Well, who doesn’t secretly want to be a muse, really? I mean, when it comes down to it, wouldn’t it be pretty cool to inspire some hot, passionate person to create a work of art that reflects the awesomeness that is you? And all you have to do is sit there and be your fabulous self? Sign me up, right?
Or have you ever had that moment when you’re dating a musician and he plays you the new beautiful love song he’s written, and you think “Oh my gawd, this song is about me!” (a la the drunk girl from family guy)–until you get to the end of the song and it is, in fact, about a whiskey bottle?
Do you ever have that ex who thinks that just by the virtue that he made something, you would care? I mean, he’s feeling all these really deep feelings and expressing them and stuff, so it must be something that would interest you. And then this happens:
Congratulations, you wrote a story about yourself. Now here’s a hint: you’re not that interesting.
I know, I know, perhaps I’m not giving this one the benefit of the doubt. I mean, he tried and all. And clearly I’m all about that expressing yourself achieving catharsis garbage. But seriously? Seriously? You thought this would work?
Seems like when the moment comes and that song really is about you, 9 times out of 10 you would have been better off writing it yourself. Then at least it would be your crappy song.
So guys are just harder to pick presents for in general, in my opinion. Women can get flowers, bath stuff, jewelry, but for men there is less of a blanket of obvious gifts. On his birthday–forget cards, watches, sports memorabilia–nothing says love and devotion like when she talks to her ex on the phone for a long period of time.
Happy birthday, honey! I’m having serious second thoughts about you!