This morning I spent . . . um, way too long trying to get 94.9 (THE SOUND) on the radio in my office. I WOULD just listen to it online, but I can't because my company blocks anything fun (like, say, if you go to Youtube and search for "unicorn planet" . . . trust me). The reason I wanted, nay, NEEDED, to listen to 94.9 is because they're playing Perfect 10's all day. Which basically means people submit their 10 favorite songs and then they play them. That was pretty self-explanatory, I guess. Please don't think I think you're all so stupid that you don't know what a Perfect 10 is BECAUSE I DON'T.
The reason I love when they play Perfect 10's is because every so often, someone else's Perfect 10 will so closely resemble my own (you know, should I ever actually sit down and compile one) that I just know if we met we'd be BFF. I know that's probably not true, I just like to say BFF. This one time? I was in the car listening to some guy's Perfect 10 and every time a new song came on I would say, "HEY! I love this song!" especially when he played "Blister in the Sun" because, um, I love that song. And I thought to myself, "Jennie (for that is my name) . . . if he plays Death Cab for Cutie or something by The Shins, I believe he might be your soulmate," and I almost called the radio station to try and talk them into giving me the guy's phone number when the next song that came on was this one.
I love listening to Perfect 10's because it's like listening to someone's favorite mix-tape. I love mix-tapes. Although now I believe they are called "iPods." Whatever. Also, it makes me think of High Fidelity, a movie I absolutely hated when I first saw it (I was all of . . . I don't know, 18?) but when I watched it (and read it) again recently I was all "18-year-old Jennie was stupid," which . . . duh. At the end of the movie, Rob makes a mix-tape for Laura, something no one has ever done for me. If some guy ever made me a mix-tape even half as perfect as my Perfect 10, then I might be tempted to have his babies. Probably not, though. Probably I'd be so freaked out that someone knew me so well they could make something even remotely close to my Perfect 10, I'd never talk to him again. Because I'm a tiny bit fucked up. Maybe more than a tiny bit. I once told a guy that I think everyone is at least a tiny bit fucked up, and it wasn't until he started to disagree with me that I realized I actually believed what I'd said. Point proven, as far as I'm concerned.