Driving

Edit: This is fiction. It's a piece called Driving.

*** Language Alert ***

...He says all the right things at exactly the right time, but he means nothing to you and you don't know why...

What egotistical shit is this? He hasn't got the right to pen this song. He hasn't the soul the comes from having it all pulled out from under his fuckin' legs. He doesn't know shit. He's sitting there with you on his lap, and what has he done to deserve you? Fuck all.

It takes me several minutes of this garbage before I become aware that sanity could be merely a station change away. My radio proceeds to some Indian rubbish, as Bollywood dancers fill the back seat. Before they get the chance to dirty my car, the radio's found some classical tune.

They all sound the same. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure each one is a masterpiece. They just feel like different emotions played out by string instruments of various sizes with a piano helping out. The only problem is, there ain't no words to work out what the issue is.
Pop music- I'm in love, I wanna fuck. Rock- I'm in love, I wanna kill someone. Emo shit- I'm in love, I want to cut myself. Classical- I'm in love, but I don't speak your language. But I do happen to have several different sizes of string instrument at my disposal. Would interpretive dance help? No? Then we'll stick with the violins.

Classical will do. When I'm having trouble navigating my way through my own head, listening to other people's problems – as produced and distributed by record companies – is the last thing I fucking need.