Dear The Guy Who Liked Operatic Metal

September 27, 2011 § Leave a comment


People would be surprised how much dick a girl working third shift at a gas station can pull in by listening to mix tapes. This was after my first kid was born, too, and I had that weird flap-gut, stretch marks all over, and a dollar store fashion sense. Still, night after night some midwestern stoner or factory worker would come in and get my number. Sometimes I’d fuck them around the back of the building, but mostly I would just tell them when my shift was over, get their address, and drive over to their place to let them eat me out in their water beds or futons before heading home to my step-dad’s place in time for him to get to work.

You happened in to the gas station one night on your way home from a death metal show in Madison, and there I was, restocking the chips and listening to Abwhore, seeming like some ginger, tight jeaned goddess of Frito Lays. Your long hair was still sweaty, parted down the middle, and I thought about all the rock and roll guys I’d ever slept with, and how they were all total pussies.

You rocker guys, you’re just the worst at everything, you know? You’re humorless cry-babies who’ve been tricked into assuming a lifestyle based on years of other humorless crybabies marketing metal as music for tough guys. I wish I could go back in time and find that moment that each of you took a look at your puny or flabby bodies and decided that the only thing to do was to metal away your pain. If I could do that, I’d whisper in your ears, “Step away from this. You have options. Punk Rock is way more fun. Or just be a nerd. Then at least people will think you’re smart.”

I did end up spending like, two weeks, seeing you, though, but that’s because you and your mom would watch my son while I took naps. Right. I know. I wasn’t a very good person. But I was also a tired person, and those naps were like a payment from you for having to listen to you talk about your band that you wanted to start.

And then one day you did what you guys tend to do, and you proposed to me in front of your mom, saying you were in love. And your mom had hopeful tears in her eyes, ready to make this grandmothering thing a full time gig. Come to think of it, every mother of a rock-guy I’ve ever known has been kind of a freak when it comes to thinking it’s a good idea for their sons to propose to every girl they ever screw.

That was also when I decided I was done with the gas station, so it was easy enough to stop seeing you. I never explained why, either. I just disappeared. But I was thinking about you one day last week, and I was sad that I didn’t remember your name, because now I can’t look you up online and make fun of whatever became of you. And I want to think that you started that band, played three shows, realized that operatic metal is the worst of the awful, cut your hair, and took a job at a mall kiosk selling magic deodorant crystals or sunglass cleaning cloths.

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