Chasing Hemingway

Mr Brightside

Whenever the song by the Killers, ‘Mr Brightside,’ comes on, I am suddenly 18 again and waking up in my dorm room in Los Angeles as it plays on my radio alarm clock. I am not hungover – I didn’t drink my freshman year – but I am exhausted from refusing to turn down any social invitation in an effort to make new friends, to connect with people I’ve just met, to learn to love somewhere I feel desperately out of place.

And, as the song’s disjointed story unfolds, I am heartsick. The indie skater boy from Chicago who lives upstairs, to whom I have spoken maybe three times and with whom I am convinced I am desperately in love, is most certainly dating the petite girl with the hipster glasses who also lives upstairs and who I will later learn fits into the category of Manic Pixie Dream Girl, the kind of girl I envy and want to emulate at that age. But tall girls can’t be MPDGs. It takes a couple years, but I am belatedly grateful for this, and for all the other reasons that I never fit into that box created by boys who are afraid of independent women who aren’t looking to save or be saved.

This entry was published on October 1, 2013 at 4:53 pm. It’s filed under being a woman, growing up, music, vignette, writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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